Cellar Door
by Va Vonne
Summary: "And Hermione was telling him, 'we're in this together', and Malfoy was nodding up against her because he had to, he needed to... he needed her." Hermione Granger in the Cellar of Malfoy Manor, Draco condemned to kill her. But what if he couldn't do it?
1. Dead Man's Bones

**Vonne: **Once 'Basket Case' ends, I'm going to need a new story to occupy myself with. Yesterday, I started a new fiction entitled 'Cellar Door', but today I realized that the way I'd begun was not really how I wanted to go with it, mainly because I wasn't sure as to how I was going to write Hermione into the plot. But now, after a little bit more planning, I have come up with a new idea. This is going to be what 'Cellar Door' would have been with a slight twist. So, with that being said, 'CD' has been deleted to make room for this- don't worry, it only had one chapter, and I've used some excerpts from it to complete this opening chapter, as well. So! Please do not hesitate to review and let me know what you think of what I have going so far with this. I'm hoping that it will take off in the same way that 'Basket Case', 'Radio', and 'High Hopes Down' did. Remember that I respond back to all the reviews I get, so please leave me a question in a review and I will have your answer published with the next chapter. I've included a longer summary of this story below, because FF is very picking on character counts at the front page.

**Summary: **Draco Malfoy's life had been spiraling out of control since he first was pulled from school to live with the Death Eaters. He's an alcoholic mess with a permanent Dark Mark on his arm, a walking zombie whose existence is lived through followed orders and obliging head nods. And his days are spent numbly; he goes through the motions until it is time for bed. But the arrival of the Death Eaters' new captive changes his life drastically. Hermione Granger is living down in the basement, and the Death Eaters have given Draco Malfoy the task of 'making her feel at home'. But will Draco be able to face Hermione? Or will he fall madly in love with her?

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_"This famous linguist once said that of all the phrases in the English language, of all the endless combinations of words in all of history, that Cellar Door is the most beautiful..."_

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**Chapter One:**  
**Dead Man's Bones**

Though the Manor that belonged to the prestige Malfoy's had been hidden, it sat undeniably at the posterior of the massive gate that surrounded it. The vines grew veiny and clustered around the marble white outside, creeping up the sides of the house as if rooting it there to its spot on the ground. Yet the stone pathway kept it beautiful, captivating even, despite the scenery of mysterious wood behind it. It curled up and drew on, drifting off in a graceful manner past the gate, past the vine, and past the flowing fountain in the front, where a delicate white peacock strutted proudly across the emerald green lawn before vanishing far beyond the hedges.

It was a home of beauty, of interest, and wealth; and such assumptions were only further clarified on the inside, as well. Elegant wallpaper lined the corridors, and massive chandeliers hung glistening from the ceiling tops. And the hallways twisted and turned, long and winding as they contorted in a secretive way throughout the lovely mansion. Thus, one in particular lie tucked away, hidden from the rest; it followed the stairs upward and winded around the visible doors of the home that seemed welcoming and warm. And at the end rest the door to one bedroom in particular. The door was small and scratched, far at the back of the house and commonly overlooked.

If ever opened, however, the interior would only show a bedroom, Draco Malfoy's, and a rather messy one at that. And, at the time currently, it had been occupied. The shadows of three lazy figures sparked to life. In the dull blackness, one of the slumped men groaned. The hazy scene around Draco Malfoy swirled, and he was certain that it was somewhere around two o'clock in the morning. Well, _remotely_ certain, at least. It was the numbers on the large clock before him that had made him uncertain. They twisted and twirled outwards, taunting him restlessly and blurring whenever he tried to readjust his eyes and get a more proper look. Still, two a.m sounded about right; the moon was still out and the sky was still dark, but something about his surroundings seemed to blossom, as if the world had just begun to open up into another day. However, Draco's instinct did not stop him from trying to see. He peered at the face of the clock, challenging it, and then, with a sigh, gave up whole-heartedly.

"Goyle," he said with a slur. He lifted his hand lazily off of the mattress of his bed and gestured to the awful contraption in the corner. "What's the clock say?"

Gregory Goyle shook his head. His back was against the mattress as well, and his chin was in the air. He shimmered with sweat and spit, and he looked like an abnormally large bear on the surface of the bed opposite of Crabbe. "Draco, mate, no," he hiccuped, his fingers still clenched tightly around the bottle of gin that he'd been sipping, "clocks don't _say_ anything."

The seriousness in the boy's voice was undeniable, and he stared back at Malfoy as if he had told him something of value, something of true genius. Vincent Crabbe, on the other hand, remained undoubtedly unimpressed. He scowled, far more capable at holding his liquor. Though their drinking nights had not been something out of the ordinary, and Crabbe knew that Goyle always tended to drink too much during their binge sessions. Every night since the three had been pulled from Hogwarts to help Voldemort and the Death Eaters, drinking had become a regular event. And Draco knew exactly where his father hid most of his gin and tonic. Thus, he'd started pulling it up from the cellar, hiding it under his bed and storing it there until later. It wasn't as if either of the boys considered their drinking that of a good time, however. On the contrary, they fully accepted the fact that they were only just drowning in their own blatant misery.

Or, at least, Draco and Goyle had been. The two other boys knew that Draco's reluctance to follow Voldemort was growing. They'd witnessed his restless sleep and heard him up at night, sick in the sink. He had become something of a shell of his former self. He'd stopped feeling. Everything had gone numb. And yet, that did not stop Draco from trying to hide it from Goyle and Crabbe. In front of them, he managed to keep his back straight and his chin up; however, they could see right through his demeanor. Though Goyle only seemed to mirror Draco's feelings, Crabbe had been stern- he'd wanted to follow Voldemort to the end, just like his father.

Still, Crabbe cocked his chin over at Goyle, rolling his eyes. He saw the stupid look on the kid's face, and waited for the last echo of his statement leave the room. "Fuck." Crabbe moaned, running his hand over his head. "Draco, take that damn bottle away from him, would you? He's going to be bloody bungalowed in the morning."

"Oi!" defended Goyle, his fingers locking tighter around the glass like a boy trying to protect his teddy bear, "I've barely had any." It was a lie, and all three of the boys knew it.

Crabbe's eyes narrowed. He picked his upper half up from the bed and supported himself with his elbows. Over the past couple of weeks that he had been staying at the Manor, Crabbe had acquired a bit of muscle to counterbalance his fat. He could have easily pried the gin from Goyle's hands, but instead he hissed back at Malfoy, his eyes vibrant and unmistakable in the night. When Goyle tilted his head back to down another swig, Crabbe shouted, "Draco!"

The room around Malfoy spun. He lifted a wiry hand to his head and peered back at Goyle. "Come on, Goyle," he tried miserably, but his voice was soft with kind understanding. He fidgeted, still finding the strength to lift his feet, "you don't want to give us away tomorrow, do you?"

"I never get hungover, Draco," Goyle replied, swirling the drink around whimsically.

"Liar." Crabbe hissed, his short hair looking sloppy at the tip of his skull. Yet he did not look as smashed as Draco had at the moment. Malfoy, who had kept his blond hair long and shaggy, was only fractionally aware that his head resembled that of a slob. "You never get hungover? Goyle, you're a bloody idoiot."

Goyle's face slumped. He considered the room and he watched Draco as he attempted to lift himself up from the bed again. He was not doing quite spectacularly, either. Each time he strained to lift his body up, he only fumbled back down, slipping and sliding against the mattress. When he finally had his feet on the floor, he leaned back against the wall for support, his knees locked together like a new fawn. Goyle, who had been rather perplexed by the situation, lifted up a thick eyebrow. Crabbe, however, scoffed. "Draco, you too- fucking pathetic."

Malfoy's head jolted up, red. He didn't take the time to defend himself. Instead, he didn't seem to disagree with Crabbe completely. Yet a rather embarrassed expression tainted his face and his humiliation was rather obvious. "Geez, Crabbe," Goyle moaned, flopping his head back and turning away from Malfoy kindly; he let him sink in his embarrassment alone. "Why do you have to be so mean all the time?"

"Because I'm surrounded by two bloody berks." Crabbe said honestly. He was a mean drunk, but he was rather mean sober as well.

Neither of the two sought to defend themselves. Instead, Goyle shut his eyes, oblivious to Draco, who had begun his awkward footing towards him. He scooted past the edge of his own mattress, his fingers cradling the end of his supportively. He looked wonky and unkempt in his day clothes; he had climbed to bed in them and had forgotten to take them off. Yet his awful attire was not something out of the ordinary. Though both Goyle and Crabbe had remembered to change into pyjama shirts, they hadn't bothered with reminding Draco. He was far too much of a mess and it was obvious in the way in which he stumbled forward. He held his hand out, nonetheless, a sad look on his face, gesturing towards the gin bottle decisively.

Goyle's eyes peeked open at the sight of Malfoy's thinly looming shadow. "He's right, you know," slurred the blond. He frowned back at the half empty glass. The thing was a rather big bottle, and he had previous planned on saving it for more difficult nights. "And besides, you're wasting it," he added.

"Bugger off," slurred Goyle, gazing back at Draco bitterly. Malfoy sighed. He and Goyle were rather close, much more so than he and Crabbe had been, too. He knew that Goyle was immensely intoxicated, but so was he and, as much as Crabbe would deny it, he was too. Thus, Malfoy could hardly hold Goyle's annoying actions against him; it was, as a matter of fact, to be expected. He considered letting Goyle finish the bottle off, but Crabbe's glare dove daggers into the back of his skull.

"Goyle..."

"Draco," Goyle instructed, "back away from my bed."

Malfoy glanced over his shoulder, utterly baffled. His eyes found Crabbe's. He wasn't exactly sure how to go about the situation properly, and he certainly wasn't about to wrestle Goyle for anything that was made out of glass. Yet Vincent Crabbe did not seem to carry any sympathy for Draco Malfoy. He kept a stern and calm face, turning his head to look at the two of them with aggressive pity. "For fuck's sake, Draco." Then he snapped, "grow a spine."

Malfoy turned his head back, lolling it back over his shoulder to scrutinize Goyle again. His face heated up and he watched the boy cling on to the bottle in his sleep. His eyes were shut, and he could not see the blunt anxiety etched on Malfoy's visage. Yet there was an overwhelming sense of aggravation mixed into his stature, as well. He was tired and drunk; he didn't want to play the parent anymore, and Crabbe was not even helping him. And certainly Goyle was not making this easy. He thought back- usually when Crabbe had started up on them, they would help each other out. Now, all Draco could get was a flash of Goyle's sausage-like finger. "Give it here, Goyle," Draco demanded.

"Get bent- OI!" Goyle had not been expecting Draco to lurch so greedily at him. He felt the bottle be pried from his hands, and he clawed back for it, stumbling off his own bed with a large frown. But Draco had stumbled backwards, perhaps too drunk to be walking either, and collided with the floor. He was lucky enough not to break the glass. Still, he scrambled back up in time to miss Goyle's advancement. Crabbe, he only scowled from his bed. "Draco," Goyle whispered so that he was not heard by the Death Eaters down on the first floor, "you know I can kick your scrawny arse back into next week! Give. It. Back."

Thinking quickly, Draco lunged. Goyle had not made any attempt to pick up his wand, but Draco's fingers found his in defense. He leaned back into the wall, breathing hard, and struck the tip of his wand out back at Goyle. Crabbe laughed, "there you go, mate!" he cheered, a smile spreading across his face.

"Go to bed, Goyle!" stammered Malfoy, his chest heaving up wildly. He ignored Crabbe, who had taken a seat on his mattress. His own fingers held on to his drink that was still half full. He seemed to be enjoying himself far too much. And he seemed oblivious to the danger of the tension. Goyle's expression, however, went dark. He looked sullen and uneasy. His feet stopped moving and, instead, he remained still on the floor of the bedroom. He stopped for a moment, looking Draco up and down slightly; and then seemed to decided that he could definitely take him.

Thus, the large boy stepped back, backtracking before rushing forward like a bull. His eyes narrowed and Draco stumbled back. He flinched, twisting, and then whipped his wand out, his voice a desperate pant, _"Petrificus Totalus_!" he shouted, and Goyle suddenly went stiff. His hands slipped down to his chubby sides and, like a plank, he crashed backwards with a large thud. When he finally hit the floor, he was out instantly.

"Shit!" Crabbe swore, staring down at Goyle. He'd shook the room, and the banging noise was rather impressive. He ran his hand to his skull, setting aside his drink heavily. "Shit!" Draco had slumped to the floor, his legs out in front of him and his eyes wide. He let the bottle gently down to the floor, and his chest had not stopped heaving. "We're fucked!" choked Crabbe, frantically. He jumped from his mattress, staring down at Goyle in a terrified manner. "We're fucked!" He waited- it was the only thing he could have done- and stood in the center of the room dripping sweat. The Death Eaters would come into the room to find Goyle in a tightly wound heap in the room; Crabbe, holding a bottle of alcohol; and Malfoy, slumped up against the wall looking more intoxicated than the rest of them.

His mind thought back to all the horrible things that they would do to them. And he could hardly stand. He, Vincent Crabbe, had been loyal to the Death Eaters. He'd followed Voldemort faithfully, unlike Draco or Goyle. But there was no way that they could overlook something like this. And he couldn't help himself; his shoulders shook, his face falling. He waited for a hiss, for the lock on the bedroom door to turn. He waited to be hexed, or for a dark shadow to block his view. However, nothing happened.

"What's going on?" Crabbe croaked, and turned around.

He spotted the transparent glass door at the end of Malfoy's bedroom. It showed him the path to the house and, additionally, something rather strange at the end of it. There in the dark stood the lot of them- the Death Eaters stood in a circle. In the night they looked like demons, each of them translucent in a strange way that made them horrifying and irregular. The Malfoy's beautifully white peacock strutted past them, but it went utterly unnoticed. In the night, something else struggled against their grip.

"Draco," whispered Crabbe, stumbling forward and away from Goyle's unconscious figure. He delivered a harsh and spiteful kick directly into Malfoy's boney side. "Get up," he croaked drily. "Look." Malfoy's chest lifted and fell. He didn't move. Instead, he stared back at Goyle; a perplexed expression took over his features. "Draco," he heard Crabbe say to him again, aggressively. When Malfoy did not move, he felt Crabbe reach down. The boy's meaty claws grabbed at his collar and Draco stumbled back up to his feet. He leaned against the wall of his room, feeling ill, and felt dizzy when he was pulled back towards the shiny window.

Crabbe pudgy finger jabbed towards the glass. "There's a girl," he said, "there's a girl in the garden."

Malfoy peered out. He was right; struggling against the clustered Death Eaters was a female figure. She was slender and frantic and bloody. Her brunette hair was a mess, but Draco could help but think her to be pretty before he coughed out, "Hermione Granger?"

Crabbe nodded. "Looks like they finally caught one of them." His voice, however, was not grim. Hermione's capture had preoccupied the Death Eaters. They had not noticed Goyle's fall, and Crabbe's mood was subsequently lifted. The capture of the Granger girl seemed to be a joyful bonus. Nonetheless, he smiled with satisfaction. Draco, on the other hand, felt a distinct churning in his stomach. "She's going down to the cellar, you know," Goyle informed him happily.

Malfoy's face paled. He remembered the long hallways of his house, and the one particular corridor that made his stomach ache. It was one that was dark and daunting, it jolted off by the fireplace behind the living room, cut off by the bulk of a simple white door whose surface had been decked with scratches. It was perhaps the only obvious imperfection about the house, and something about it was chilly and hushed. It was a door that had never been opened until the likes of Voldemort and his Death Eaters had occupied the home. Since then, it had been posed there as nothing more than a blatant threat.

Yet it was not a rare occasion in which one sorry soul did find themselves stumbling down that very hallway and facing the white door in agony. They'd disappear for days, weeks, months even, before making another reappearance among the Death Eaters again. And, until then, their absence was commonly unspoken of. Hours carried on as usual, and demeanors remained fairly casual; when time came for the cast out being to make himself present again, even he opted to keep his mouths shut.

"Filthy Mudblood," spat Crabbe. But the Death Eaters resumed in their step. They lifted a wand to her throat and she cried out. However, their spell worked; at the instant, her body collapsed forward. She went limp and, crumbling downwards, she was unconscious before she had time to make for an escape. "I'm guessing its not long until they get Potter and Weasley," Crabbe continued. He watched the Death Eaters direct her unconscious body away and his expression lifted. "How long do you think she'll last down there in that Cellar?"

Malfoy flinched as Crabbe nudged him in the ribs. He felt sick with intoxication; he felt sick with something else, as well, but he wasn't entirely sure what. "I dunno," he mumbled.

Draco Malfoy had been watching the white door with a careful eye ever since Alecto Carrow had been locked up down there. He'd remembered the afternoon vaguely, but he could never forget the way that the stout woman had been seized. She was lifted squirming from the living room by Yaxley, whose strong fingers had her held upwards by the neck. He, Draco, was supposed to have been asleep, but the loud arguing downstairs had woken him from his dreams. Thus, he'd slipped past the bedroom that he'd shared with Crabbe and Goyle, and held his breath as he wandered down the hallway of his own house. Yet he'd made it just in time to see; Alecto had been thrown from her seat at the nod from Voldemort, her visage glistening in the orange-red light of the fireplace, and dragged kicking and screaming by the roots of her unkempt hair. He'd watched in terror as she'd been shown the cellar door, felt his heart beat faster when Yaxley had hissed, "Alohamora," and heard Alecto cry out, but could not see what she had seen beyond the threshold. Nonetheless, she was led downwards, past the doorframe and out of sight.

But Alecto was not the first, and certainly had not been the last. Almost traditionally, Malfoy's nights would be spent sleeplessly. He could hear them, could hear their cries and bangs as they pounded up against the cellar walls. When their fellow Death Eaters would clamor down to them at night with their poorly proportioned dinner, he relished in the fact that, for a moment, they would be silent. Yet when the captives were greeted by the likes of an angry visitor, Malfoy would be once again awoken to the sound of, "Crucio!", and even at seventeen years old, he had to hide under the covers.

Outside the scene seemed to shift. Hermione was led away and the two conscious boys heard the front door of the Malfoy Manor slam shut. A scoffing of feet slid against the floorboards and Draco was certain as to where the Death Eaters were heading. The Cellar Door, it was the room directly under the floor from Malfoy's. He could hear everything, he could imagine everything. And as he stood waiting, his ears were filled of the creaking door as it was pulled open. He heard the hollow steps as they descended, and tried to keep his footing when he heard them shove the girl's body in the corner.

When he lost his balance, Crabbe's mood was too far lifted for him to express concern. "You're bloody drunk!" he said, proudly. "Atta boy!"

But Malfoy was not proud of himself. Eventually, when Draco's head couldn't truly take any more of being conscious, he felt that he was finally going down.

And thus the feeling of loss sunk in. He stared at the pile of Gregory Goyle at his feet, glanced back at the top of the stairs, and heard the sounds of the door closing again, of Goyle's breathing.

He realized dizzily that he couldn't feel his chest, couldn't feel his legs, couldn't feel his head. And he remembered the Cellar as the ghosts of his childhood past danced around him fleetingly. But he was not a child anymore; as a matter of fact, he didn't really know what he is. Perhaps he ws a pile of lanky flesh; or a concoction of lungs, liver, and a heart. Perhaps he was a collection of molecules, or a figment of someone's twisted imagination. Perhaps, out of all things, he was a set up of nothing more than bones.

He didn't pass out, but instead remained conscious. With his hands at his skull and his feet on the floor, he considered that fact that, it is only a matter of time until both he and Hermione are dead and buried, and the thought sickened him.

And, with that, he asks himself: what will he will be then?

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**Vonne: **Please review!


	2. In the Room Where You Sleep

**Vonne:** Second chapter finally here and its a long one! I can't wait to get this story fully started. I am, however, going to finish Basket Case very soon! Please keep an eye out for the next chapter, as it is right around the corner, I promise you.

**Voldyismyfather: **Thank you so much! I'm glad you like the opening chapter, as I always have a hard time beginning new fanfictions. This chapter I was much more willing to dive into completely. It's so nice to hear from you again outside of Radio and Basket Case. Thanks so much for your interest!

**AddictedtoBooks08: **Thank you! I love writing and it is always a compliment to hear that someone enjoys it. I wrote a lot for this chapter, too. I think the word count without this intro is somewhere close to 8,000 words. 7,815 actually. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as the first one!

**Lissie1994: **Oh good! I had hoped that it had potential. I feel that this story will get more and more interesting as it goes on. I've got some things planned out, but its hush-hush right now, so I'm excited to keep you guessing! Hopefully you'll stick around to see this until the end!

**EVAN: **It definitely took a lot of thought on my part on deciding which version of 'Cellar Door' I wanted to publish in the end. I came to decide on this one because I ended up having a handful of ideas relating to this story line. The other version of 'Cellar Door' was a lot more limited. With this version, I know that I can definitely incorporate the two ideas together. But I totally understand about your worry that it will be too romantic for your taste. I can assure you that it will have much, much more going on, as well. But I cannot return the original because the two would be very, very similar. I hope you end up changing your mind!

**Le Candeh: **I can't wait to see where this goes, either! I'm writing this slowly in time to finish 'Basket Case', but I'm definitely excited.

**MCLanna: **Thank you! I hope you do end up liking it! I am excited to keep writing and figuring out this concept more and more as it progresses.

**Lively McBrighten: **Thanks! Your faith progresses my own faith in this fan fiction! Definitely very motivating!

**Psychic City: **Hello there, slow poke! May I remind you that you are late? Way, way late for that matter. And look at me, all ready with an entirely new fan fiction in the works! It looks like you've got some competition ahead of you. I mean, do you think you can handle it? ;)

**Isabella120: **I actually have to agree with you. I like this version better than my first try at 'Cellar Door'. I can see this fiction going somewhere definitely. It is for sure not Deathly Hallows compatible, but still, I've got some things planned here and there, and I'm definitely thrilled. Thank you, and sorry it took a little while to update!

**Pearlrose33: **Definitely a very morbid beginning. I'm going to be touching up on addictions and depressions and all that good angsty stuff. And you're right. But I've definitely always wondered what exactly went on in the Malfoy Manor when all the War was going on. Usually, with the fan fictions I write, I'm just trying to fill in the missing pieces. However, this will be a bit different considering Hermione was never captured for a long period of time at the Manor without Harry or Ron. But still, I'm going to have fun with it!

**Miss Lyra: **Thank you! I'm so glad that you're interested in this so far. I've made this chapter a whole lot longer, too. I hope you enjoy it!

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_"You should know what's really going down below. Dressed in their best clothes, there are rows and rows and rows of bones."_

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**Chapter Two**  
**In the Room Where You Sleep**

They sat with their backs straight and their hands folded, the picture perfect of adolescent to-be Death Eaters. They masked their hangovers with expressions of sobriety, stiffly postured and anxiously tense. It had been a while since they had been sitting there, looking morose under all that lack of light, yet they remained silent in all their patience. And they knew why it was that they had been brought to the living room table, knew why all the surrounding Death Eaters looked just so keen to share the news. Yes, Hermione Granger had been caught- a magnificent feat for the lot that had worked so hard on pleasing their Dark Lord. Certainly, it had taken them long enough, but now they had finally managed to capture her- had finally managed to carry out the impossible.

Crabbe, he was happy, too; was very happy, actually, despite his rather pale complexion. He had even tried smiling along with them, looking perhaps the most alert of the three boys since the previous night's minor fuss. And Goyle, even, had done a fine acting job as well. So overjoyed in their job well done, the Death Eaters didn't even seem to pay Goyle's green visage much notice. Thus, the boy managed to sit there, stiff as a board, with a smile that was somewhat strange on his flabby front. This time, Draco noted, he could get away with it.

But it was Malfoy, on the other hand, who was having a hard time fitting in. He couldn't truly put his finger on it, though. Why, exactly, he had not been overjoyed at the work of his father and his aunt had escaped him. Really. And, as he sat at the table in hysterics, he wondered why he wasn't truly relishing in the joy of having caught one of Harry Potter's greatest... ah, what was it? Assets, perhaps? Yes, Potter's assets. She was nothing more than a filthy Mudblood, anyways, and her presence in the house of Malfoy was certainly something to be celebratory about. Once the Death Eaters were done with her- once her dirty blood had been split- she would be just another one down in the dust.

So then, why was it that the smile on his face was feigned? Why was it, as a matter of fact, that he did not desire to hear the news? He told himself that the months in Malfoy Manor had made him weary, worn him out. Certainly he had not been softened by them. In fact, he was sure that his redemption for not killing Dumbledore was right around the corner- or, at least, his father had brought him there in hopes that it would be. He, Draco Malfoy, would no longer be considered a shame to his family's once prestige name. Not any longer. And so, he bucked up, feeling more and more sober as time drew on, and put on a smile that was, at least, half-satisfied. Besides, maybe Granger's capture would only help the Death Eater's side of the War. Certainly Potter and Weasley would come running. Draco's smirk doubled; perhaps, he considered dully, certain people were just destined to die.

"Hear that?" Bellatrix Lestrange said after a long while of waiting. Her pouty lips formed the words sadistically, lingering in the open silence as she truly relished every second. And Draco certainly had heard it; Hermione. She had been sleeping since the previous night, passed out to be honest, and had only just woken up to find herself in the Cellar. He'd heard her since he'd been summoned from his room, heard her since he'd been led down the stairs, and heard her now as he sat in his stiff position cautiously. For a small girl, she was quite the screamer. Her loud shrieks rattled the house and made his head tingle. But Bellatrix seemed to love it. She was overjoyed, overwhelmed- bubbly, even, as the hoarse cries echoed throughout the Manor.

But Pettigrew seemed more annoyed with the sobbing than anything. He had been standing next to Bellatrix, hands across his chest, and had positioned his weight all on one side of his body. "She's been at it all morning," he stated blandly, with a tone that was slightly reminiscent of a whine. Ever sine Voldemort had left the Death Eaters in charge of the Manor, Peter certainly had taken up a far more relaxed attitude around the house. He used less manners, walked on far less eggshells. And the Death Eaters had seemed to have lost much of their patience with him. However, for the most part, they took to ignoring his input, every so often hexing him a new scar across his face for the mere fun of it.

Nonetheless, Bellatrix inhaled. "Music to my ears," she breathed, and despite her twisted grin, she managed to remain looking beautiful. She twiddled her wand into her curly locks, pondering girlishly as she leaned up against the elongated table. To the three boys, she mused aloud, "I wonder if I shall keep the sound in a bottle as a present for the Dark Lord when he returns." Her expression seemed devilish and, at the same time, impossibly corrupt. "Then he will truly know how much she is to suffer."

Fenir Greyback stifled a chuckle. He had been standing a bit back behind her and the wide smile had not left his face for what Draco thought to be hours. When Crabbe's mouth dropped open in attempt to speak his mind, however, his expression watched wearily, as if sending him a warning. However, neither of the Death Eaters did much to stop Vincent, who stumbled slightly before gaining any momentum in his speech at all. "And... w-what has the Dark Lord s-said about this achievement?" he began, looking curious and enthralled. Then, quickly, he added, "I'm certain he was more than rightfully overjoyed?"

Bellatrix leaned back. She placed her hand on her hip and turned her head. She said with slight annoyance, "the Dark Lord has been, as you know, profoundly busy. He was _certainly_ 'overjoyed' at-"

"Without Potter," Fenir Greyback hissed, finishing for her, "Granger means nothing."

"B-But..." Crabbe took the option to speak again, his head inclined forward with curiosity. "Won't P-Potter b-be looking for her? Won't he come t-to find h-her?"

The sick smile returning to her pretty face, Bellatrix finally looked somewhat impressed with Crabbe. She inched her upper torso onto the top of the table, leaning in so close to Crabbe and offering him an expression that was all the more tender. She breathed, "looks like you're on to something," and touched his cheek so softly that Crabbe stiffened with a whole new onset of sheer terror.

"For now," Fenir said again, watching Bellatrix slink away. She regained her posture at the seat across from the boys, giggling every so often that Hermione's screams reached their floor. "He's left her to us." The grin that tainted the werewolf's expression was riddled with hostility. "And when Potter _does_ get here, the most he'll find is her bloody corpse."

"So we get to have a little fun with her first," Bellatrix shrugged, looking girlish. A loud sob broke through the barrier of the walls around them, and her face fantastically lit up.

But Draco didn't understand. They'd had Hermione, and yet, they certainly had not killed her. In fact, he was certain that they had only merely toyed with her up until this point. Yet, why did this involve him? Had they only called the three of them downstairs to simply inform them of their plan? It didn't seem reasonable, didn't seem to fit. Something, he suspected, was far more broad. And yet, he let himself sit in the silence of Hermione's cries for a moment, watched Bellatrix's shoulders bob with every high pitched giggle. Until then, when he was certainly at a loss, he found the courage to ask, "s-so, what does this have t-to do with us?"

Yet the moment he'd said it, he had wished he hadn't. Silence overtook the room again and Hermione had begun to kick the walls. The living room rattled, and Bellatrix's hair fell drastically out of place. Nonetheless, she remained unfazed, still smirking despite the Granger girl's uptake in strength. "Oh," she drawled, "its got _everything_ to do with you, Draco..." Her tone was rather loving, almost too loving for that of an aunt; Draco instantly saw right through it.

Greyback, from the far end of the room, huffed. "Your _father_ insisted upon it," he sneered jeeringly from the shadows.

"Seems as if he's just _dying_ for you to redeem yourself, Draco," whispered Bellatrix with a little wink. She smoothed out the front of her long black dress, fiddled innocently with her hair, and then turned back to Fenir, waiting for him to continue.

"It's been agreed," he hissed, bitterly, "that she fall to the hands of the three of you. And Draco, when he deems it necessary, is in charge of-" he paused for a second, looking anxiously rushed, as if his envy were all the more visible now. But he kept his arms crossed along his chest, still talking like a rather jealous demon. Yet he managed to pull himself together long enough to spit, "Draco is in charge of killing her off." Then, a bit more hastily, he muttered, "only until after I have a piece of her, of course..."

But Malfoy was paying no attention to Fenir- not anymore. Instead, he felt himself grow hot, heated with the pressure of being asked, once again, to off another. "Me?" he counteracted, stumbling over himself wildly. His face lost any amount of colour it had left, and Crabbe seemed horrified to even see that Draco would bother to object. "But.. I-I d-don't... c-couldn't even-" he caught sight of their leering faces and he couldn't say it. He knew he couldn't. Thus, he saved himself, leaning back with a flustered expression before coughing out, "I wouldn't want to get near her filthy blood."

"Ah, Draco," Bellatrix sang softly after a short laugh. She seemed to have been more or less humored with his quick answer. "We all have to make insy-bitsy sacrifices for the greater good." Then she pouted, sticking out her lower lip and frowning in a lovely sort of manner that made Draco nervous for his own life. "Besides," she curled, readjusting herself, "The Dark Lord would consider this such an honor, wouldn't he, Draco?"

Fenir's face turned red. "This isn't up for bargain, Draco," he spat, writhing, "this is not a request. You will do as you are told."

At his sides, Goyle and Crabbe remained stoney and petrified, still curious as to why Draco would question such a commandment in the first place. But Draco knew- they'd thought him soft, thought him weak. And, truly, he hadn't been doing much of a job proving them otherwise. Yet Draco had not really been sure he wasn't either of those things, anyways. Lately, he wasn't exactly sure what it was that he really was, either. Because, in the long run, he really just wanted the Wizarding World to stop bickering, for Voldemort to get what he'd wanted so that he could stop the madness altogether. He wanted to see his mother happy again, to see his father's face without the lines of battle wounds. Maybe then he'd stop drinking, maybe then he'd stop worrying. Maybe then he could walk through the halls of his own house at night without worrying it to be his last.

There was nothing he had left; Draco knew it, and so did the others. He didn't want to kill her, but perhaps doing so would, actually, do him some good. For his father's sake, for his mother's sake. And so, he straightened his posture all over again. He matched a smile that complimented Bellatrix's, fixed his back so that he sat even taller than Crabbe. And in a voice that sounded so much like his father's, he said without another moment's waste, "I will."

* * *

"You," Vincent Crabbe pointed out steadily from his spot on the mattress looking up, "are the biggest idiot I have ever met in my entire life." Draco didn't even flinch. He had seen it coming, had expected it, really. "I mean, _honestly, _Draco, arguing with the Death Eaters?" Crabbe wrinkled his nose, looking concerned at the ceiling silently. "Have you forgotten that you are on thin ice? Or do I have to remind you?"

Draco flinched. No, he hadn't forgotten. And, quite frankly, he had to admit; Crabbe was right. Though not much of an argument had broken out at the living room table this morning, Fenir certainly had not been pleased by whatever _had_ actually occurred. Nonetheless, it was all the past. He, Draco, had been too quick on his feet, far too good of an actor to fall for that job. He'd caught himself, at least, that much he knew. And, for the most part, he had every plan in the world to carry out their orders. Of course, that did not mean that he did not need some time to come into his own. Certainly, he had lost himself in the past few months that he had been staying at the Malfoy Manor. Perhaps killing Granger would bring himself back to his old self again... reintroduce himself. Ah, he relished eagerly at the thought. At least, he concluded thickly, things would be normal then.

"I mean," Crabbe continued. He was tossing a small golden Snitch up and down in the air. It wasn't even the real thing; it was made out of plastic and Draco was surprised to find that he had even had the useless little toy up in his room still. He remembered absent-mindedly that his father had given it to him years ago, back when their house was a home instead of a Headquarters. "You're on such thin ice that I'm surprised redemption was even an option for you." He stiffened, tossing the Snitch in the air and then catching it. With that, he tilted his head, mulled things over. "I was actually under the impression that you had lost all hope of redemption." Then, he turned to Draco, as if to witness his opinion instead.

Malfoy felt his face flush. Heatedly, he said, "seems as if you've forgotten that I am a Malfoy, Crabbe," and then turned over on his side.

"And?" Crabbe shrugged casually. He tossed the Snitch up. Caught it. "Since when has that mattered to the Death Eaters anymore? In case you haven't forgotten, the Malfoy name has significantly lost most of its superiority as of late."

Draco opened his mouth to object, but then closed it again. It was true, and he'd known it; Crabbe knew it, Goyle as well. In his defense, however, Malfoy's were particularly good at wriggling their way out of things. He waited a moment until he heard Crabbe resume in his catch game from the mattress opposite him. "Malfoy's are particularly good at wriggling our way out of things," he counteracted, mimicking his thoughts childishly.

Goyle crunched his face up as if he'd sucked on a lemon. "I don't know about it this time, though, Draco," he said honestly. "You're going to have to do a Hell of a job on Granger." He looked almost solemn when he'd said it, but Draco chalked it up to the lad missing out on his much-needed sleep time. He did not consider Goyle's passing out the night before as proper rest. In fact, he'd been certain that Goyle had been sleeping until he'd opted to speaking only moments before. In the dark bedroom, his great big shadow lingered. His compelled expression was only half-visible in the lack of light from the window.

Lying through his teeth, Draco shook his head, "that won't be a problem," he said to the wall and he acted as if he were trying to convince it as such.

Crabbe stifled a laugh, but remained otherwise silent. Instead, he shook his head, moving it like a strong boulder on his soft pillow case. It had been hours since they had been sent back up to their rooms. And they'd been sitting on their mattresses for the entire length of it. Over the duration of the time, they had listened to Hermione's screams fill the house. Her kicks to the cellar door rocked the room. When Bellatrix, Fenir, and Yaxley paid her a visit, they'd heard her crying, heard the shouts of spells being passed back and forth.

Crabbe had turned to Draco during this moment, and he'd been grinning. "Sounds like a hell of a show," he'd beamed. He'd had his ear up against the floorboards, and his backside struck up in the air. He'd ignored Goyle when he'd headed straight to the bed, covering his ears with his pillow; he ignored Draco, even, who stood in a slump in the middle of the bedroom, paler than a bloody ghost. Crabbe had stuck out his pink tongue, practically licking his thin lips. "I can't wait to be a part of it. Filthy little Mudblood."

Then the screaming had stopped. All of it. No more mumbles or moans, no more cries or hiccups. From the basement of the cellar, absolutely everything was quiet and not a single noise was made. Draco had felt his insides clench, but Crabbe had breathed disappointedly, "intermission." And thus, they'd taken their usual places; slumped on their own beds they preoccupied themselves with their own running thoughts. It was, of course, Crabbe who had initially broken the quiet, though now that everything had been said about Hermione, the Cellar, and the three boys' task at hand, there wasn't really much of a conversation going on anyway.

So Goyle took his turn to shift. He mumbled something inaudible and then clarified with a sigh, "I've never really tortured someone before."

Crabbe's head did a little turn. "What do you mean?" he asked curiously. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Goyle's face flushed. "It means what it means, I suppose," he admitted, embarrassed.

"But what do you mean you've never tortured someone before?" Crabbe prodded, complexed, "you made every single Gryffindor's life a living Hell last year. And..." he shifted his weight, lifting himself to a higher position with his upper torso leaning on his elbows, "and you hexed the living mickey out of Lavender Brown fourth term!"

Goyle watched Draco from his spot on the bed. The blond was still facing the wall, and he hadn't even moved. Only his shoulders were lifted in a strange way that placed them far up against his ears. He looked as if he were trying not to be part of the conversation around him. Nonethless, Goyle had always relied on Draco for help out of such heated sessions with Crabbe. They'd had, from what he'd understood, and understanding. Still, Goyle's face reddened. Shrugging, he ran his meaty hand through his hair. "That was different then, Crabbe."

"Like Hell it was different then," snuffed Crabbe, throwing his head back again. "You've just gone soft, the lot of you. And, frankly, I don't know what the Dark Lord is going to think about that."

Musing this over, Goyle chewed feverishly on his bottom lip. "I just thought that this time... this time it was just a tad bit-."

"Shit, Goyle, I was only testing you! You can't be serious." Crabbe's face was twisted in a panic now. No longer calm and casual, Crabbe had twisted himself from the mattress again. He'd dropped the plastic Snitch. Just like that. "Listen here," he was saying, panting. He stood in the middle of Draco's bedroom, barefooted and clad in his pyjamas. Still, the burning look in his eyes made him menacing and Goyle found it hard _not_ to look back at him. Submissively, Goyle looked- looked attentively. He made certain that Crabbe could tell he'd had his full attention. Yet Malfoy didn't turn. Instead, Goyle could see him make a face in the reflection of the glass mirror that stood opposite him. He pressed his eyes shut and looked, if Goyle hadn't been mistaken, rather furious. "Draco, you too!"

But Malfoy made absolutely no attempts to move. Instead, he remained put, his face growing red. With embarrassment or rage, Goyle couldn't be quite sure. "Fine!" Crabbe shouted, tossing up his hands, "well just listen to me here then, the both of you!" His round face was hot with bitterness. He rounded on Goyle, made certain to get right up into his face. "If either of you fuck this up for me, the Death Eaters will be the _least _of your worries, you hear?" His panting shook his body and then he tore himself away from the bed to pace in the opposite direction.

He was grabbing his head, looking concerned and rampant. "This is what we need! _This is what we need!_ Don't you arseholes understand that? And look at us now- up in Malfoy's bedroom. Like bloody children!" His eyes were wide, and he kicked aside the stupid plastic Snitch. "Killing that filthy bitch is going to be our taking off point, our real admission."

Descending, Goyle's face flipped into a frown. "I..." he started with a stammer, "I w-wasn't saying I didn't _want_ to kill her..."

"You were saying you didn't _think_ you could kill her, Goyle!" Crabbe spat. "There's not much of a fucking difference!" And he delivered a kick into his bed frame before collapsing on it and slamming his fat palms over his perplexed face. Goyle waited for him to calm himself down; Draco waited for him to fall asleep. He'd been done listening to Crabbe for the night. He already knew what needed to be done and he'd already prepared himself to do it. Only Crabbe was making it worse, now. Nonetheless, he sighed, wiping the dribbles of sweat from his face. His lifted chest plummeted.

Crabbe let his eyes lull downward. He looked forlorn, as if he'd given up slightly. Or, at least, he'd given up for the night. "Look," he said again, moving his palms down from his face, "I don't want to hear anymore talk like that, Goyle." He inhaled, exhaled. "We need to think forward. We need to think of the positive and how we will be rewarded for this." His face was lost somewhere in the ceiling. He seemed to be thinking everything through on his own, seemed to be able to picture it in the surface of the above ceiling. "I'm going to be just like my father."

He turned back again, sitting up on his mattress and leaning back. When he had finished with his speech, readjusted his heavy weight. He'd had enough of trying to convince anyone of anything for the night and really, all he'd wanted was the sparkling contents of the glass bottle that he could see flash from under the mattress of Malfoy's bed. "Draco," he said pompously, "do get out that whiskey. I'm bloody broiled."

* * *

Draco Malfoy was shown the front of the cellar door and his heart was racing rather quickly in his chest. He thought, "bugger," and remained calm on the outside, keeping his perspiration at a rather mild level, and his twitches to every so often. He could feel the hands of his aunt on his back, her face on his shoulder. She was prepping him up, like the good aunt she was, and rubbed his aching shoulders in a back and forth motion that, really, made him nothing more than a bit anxious. In his ear, the dark woman leaned inwards, her voice soft and harsh all at the same time. And she'd whispered something about the wishes of his father or, at least, that was what Draco had thought she had whispered. Either way, she lunged forward, her long fingernails on the knob of the door, finishing off with, "... she's all yours, Draco."

It was all happening fast- too fast, Draco thought honestly. Because, before he knew it, he was being shoved lightly down the stairs, entering the dark cellar alone without anyone to watch him. Then he heard the lock on the door and a slight bout of panic washed over him before he considered that it had been done so for safety reasons. Standing at the top of the stairs with his shoulders down low, Draco tried to remember what had happened in the moments earlier. He'd remembered the argument between Crabbe and Goyle, had remembered his own spidery fingers reaching under the skirt of his bedsheets to retrieve something that would definitely calm the mood. They'd stuffed the bottle back under when they had heard the footsteps clamoring up the staircase. Goyle had downed his glass in one impressive gulp; Crabbe had dumped his over the edge of his blankets. And the door busted open and, after that, Draco couldn't remember a single thing.

He guessed that perhaps he had done something with his glass, for he was alive to see the very moments that he was looking into. And he thanked his lucky stars for that, too; if the Death Eaters had found out exactly who had been rampaging through Lucius Malfoy's liquor cabinet, Draco probably would never have seen the light of day. But now he was getting rewarded- or, at least, slightly rewarded- by being shown down to the Cellar. Yet Draco wasn't really sure what to think of the whole thing. Perhaps he was far too drunk, far too hazy to have anything proper to think about it at all, in any case. And that's when he realized he was still standing at the top of the stairs.

His grip tensed at the end of his wand and he let his eyes adjust themselves to the dark. Then he stretched his foot forwards, finding the next step down to be much lower than he'd even anticipated. He stumbled, only for a moment, so that his shoulder came in slight contact with the walls, and his hand eagerly found the railing. _Alright, Draco, old boy,_ he told himself in frustrated annoyance, _its only stairs, you've faced far worse._ Then he laughed at the pure irony of the statement in general. Stairs, funny thing about them, too. Why was it that he was so worried about making it down the bloody steps when he certainly had far worse to sit there and fret about? Had he forgotten about the Death Eaters at the other end of the Cellar Door sipping at glasses of wine? Surely they'd be waiting to hear the fantastical sound of Hermione's screaming. Certainly Draco's current stair issue did not phase them in the least.

So Draco fumbled on, staggering like a fawn or a child who had yet to take its first steps. And he breathed out, sniffing his breath for good measure. The Death Eaters had not smelt the whisky on him and he'd considered himself safe. All he'd had to do was give Granger a quick hexing or two. And Draco couldn't hear anything; he hoped she was asleep. However, the moment he'd finished his thought, he found himself loathing himself for the time being. Why would he care if Hermione was asleep or not? He'd never fancied her, never saw much in her. She was, and of course would _always be _that same filthy little Mudblood girl from Hogwarts. She was Harry Potter's best friend, Ron Weasley's alliance. She stood against everything he, Draco, stood for, and so she deserved everything that was to be coming for her.

She did. She deserved it. The Cruicator's Curse, and the Impervious Curse; in time, she would be begging for him to kill her. And he, Draco Malfoy, would dutifully oblige. He, Draco Malfoy, would be doing the world a fucking favor, too, really. Because once and for all, he'd rid the world of just one more putrid disease.

Step, stumble, stumble, step, step, step; the closer he'd got, the tighter he'd held on to his wand. Hands were growing sweaty now, feet sore, legs weak. At first, he saw nothing in the room of darkness, nothing but the stone walls, and the shadow of the staircase, and a couple of dingy old crates. But Hermione was there; he spotted her not too soon after. And, really, he wondered why he'd missed her so easily before. She was on the ground in a heap, her back facing him. Her hair was a mess from behind, covered in twigs and leaves and something else red and seeping. She looked almost dead, too, the way that her legs struck out before her lower torso, making her look wonky and a bit too malnourished. She lie there in silence, quite possibly deaf or sleeping, and he was certain that he had not heard her breathing.

He took a glance back at the Cellar Door at the top of the steps, then let his eyes wander back down to Hermione there before his feet. He was hardly close to her. In fact, he maintained a rather heavy distance in the long run. Her brown hair stretched out, only softly touching his polished shoes. But Draco found himself fascinated by the strange silence that her sleeping body took on. She barely moved, barely even breathed. If he didn't know any better, he would have guessed her dead- but Malfoy knew that that particular job had been left up to him and him alone. She wasn't dead, not yet. But close, and the thought of it chilled him.

He didn't know why. There was nothing about this girl that he was keen on, particularly. Yet, nontheless, he found himself curious about her. Still, his nerves did nothing to motivate him, really, and instead he hovered over her, hand outstretched in the middle of desiring to turn her to face him. And Draco didn't really know what he was doing there, either. He told himself that it was undoubtedly nerves brought on by his excessive drinking. If he had been in the right mindset, he would have turned her over without a problem. There was nothing to fear there, nothing about Hermione Granger that he even cared about, really. So he told himself, _just do it,_ and found himself astounded that he still hadn't yet.

There was a slight bang from upstairs and Malfoy froze. The Death Eaters had not called for him to hurry, but in time he knew that they would not be so patient. And he let his hand plunge downwards, taking an anxious grip of Hermione's shoulder with a deep inhale of breath that made him feel fuzzy and hazy and nauseated. He pressed his eyes tightly shut and whisked over the lifeless body in front of him. She fell forward like a rag doll, unconscious and flimsy with lack of suitable muscle. Her head hit the ground next to his feet, right where he was squatting, and he even stumbled backwards a few inches to get away from her. He'd kept his eyes shut, too, afraid to look at her, really- but he wasn't about to admit that. With the haze of whiskey still very present in his mind, he surged over her, and forced his eyelids blatantly apart.

He had to look- he just had to. Had to, but he wished he hadn't. He hadn't prepared himself for it, hadn't truly anticipated that the Death Eater's had done too much prior work on her before offering her to him. Her face was smeared with blood that drooled out from the spot in her skull and the crack of her open mouth. Her lip was split. Her throat was slashed in a way that was far too close for comfort. Eyes swollen. Cheeks puffy. He guessed her ribs were broken, guessed her fingers were, too. She smelt of blood and iron and something rotting. Her cheeks were smeared with tears that wiped away a fraction of the dirt on her face. And, oh fuck, she didn't look like she was breathing.

Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy, ex-chosen one of the Dark Lord, he felt his stomach do flips. He felt the bile rise up in his throat, felt the wave of tainted sick churn deep within his guts. He told himself it was the liquor... far, far too much liquor. He was drunk- only drunk- not disgusted or sympathetic. Because this was Hermione Granger he was looking at here. He shouldn't have cared- didn't care. He did not. Only, something in his stomach must have. Draco felt himself surge, his back arched and he staggered away from Hermione, crawling away from her bloody corpse to dispense his dinner in the corner of the attic before his knees. His head rushed, practically pounded. Then he wriggled himself to the side of the chilly wall, pressed his head against it, and breathed out shaky and slow.

His cold gray eyes found Hermione again and he shakily readjusted himself. Coughing, he slipped back to her side, squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath. And, despite himself, he checked her pulse. Thus, he lowered his fingers, hesitating before bracing himself to place them on her neck. However, he could not feel the slow throb of it against his fingers on her neck. He couldn't, so he panicked. He didn't even know why he'd panicked, either, didn't even know why because Hermione Granger just didn't matter to him. Thus, perhaps it had been the whiskey that had forced his head downwards onto her chest. He didn't know why, but he'd positioned his head there on top of her to listen for the beat of her heart and held his breath so that he could hear it. And when finally, he heard the determined beat of it aching there, he breathed out a sigh, though it wasn't of relief. No, definitely not of relief. Something unexpected came then; it was a large inhale that definitely was not his.

She was breathing; Hermione was breathing. Granted, it was a very shaky and hoarse intake of breath. She didn't do it very well, Draco had noticed. In fact, he was almost utterly horrible at it. Instead, she breathed heavily as if she'd been held underwater, as if she'd been drowned or gagged. And Draco leapt backwards, surprised to have even heard her make any noise at all. Gasping, he threw his body back, rather disgusted with himself for having even been so close to her in the first place, and placed his hand against his own pounding heart as his face grew impossibly red. He stared wide-eyed back at her, panting heavily as he waited for her eyes to open, for her posture to move, for her to scream. Nothing, however, came. Instead, Hermione's chest only rose and fell. She didn't open her eyes, didn't move her body, didn't cry out for help. He noticed; she was just as unconscious as she had been since he had arrived, and the thought calmed him.

"Fuck!" cried Malfoy, blond hair slashed sloppily across his forehead. He smashed his foot into the side of the wall with a frustrated kick, leaning back into it like a petrified child. He brought his knees up to his chest and cradled them, hugging them close to himself as he slammed his face downwards. "Fuck."

Hermione didn't move an ounce. She didn't even flinch. Thus, Malfoy swallowed and prepared himself to gather an inch of himself. He knew that there was at least a bit of his former self somewhere. He glanced back at Granger, noting that he was a lot closer to her than he had thought, and watched her breath for a while. So, she wasn't truly a corpse at all. He didn't know why he relished in that fact, but he did. Nonetheless, he brought out his wand and felt his fingers loosely grip at it without much purpose. Shakily, he held it out in front of him, took aim at Hermione Granger and thought of all the spells and hexes he could possibly think of.

Cruciator's Curse? No, he decided, though he wasn't sure why. By the looks of it, Hermione had already been delivered the curse in the hours earlier. Hexing her with it again would only be rather repetitive, and Draco... he just didn't want that. It wasn't his curse of choice, wasn't his initial speciality. He told himself that, if he wanted to, he could do it. Told himself: it wasn't the time, wasn't the place. His head was too fuzzy, his mind wasn't thinking correctly. He was too drunk, too tired, too ill. Every bit of common sense urged for him to hex her with it, died for him to make her suffer. Bellatrix would have wanted it; and Lucius, too. But whatever the reason was, he just didn't do it. He'd save it for later, and so he moved on.

So he breathed in and muttered, _"Diffindo," _with a half-hearted breath and a rather solemn tone.

His eyes were closed and his palms were sweaty, and when he heard the sound of something being torn, he snapped his eyes open again. His eyes searched her front, and then he slumped defeatedly forward when he'd spotted what he had done. He hadn't really torn any flesh at all. No new cuts had been slashed open on her skin as he had planned. Instead, he'd managed to splice open the front of her shirt. The tear ripped through her blouse and her jacket and exposed her blue bra to him in a way that was almost an impossibly blatant mockery of him.

All the color from Draco's face drained.

He pondered the occurrence of Hermione waking up, of seeing him sitting there before her and how it would look. He could almost see it then in the image of his mind's eye. Horrified, he prayed that her eyes did not flutter open, hoped that she would not take one heavy look around the room to find him hovering. She would, of course, see his pale face, smashed with sweat and tired with alcohol. Then she'd see that he'd torn the front of her shirt so profusely that her entire blue bra was hanging out in the open. And then what would it look like?

And, he found himself thinking, of all colors... blue? He certainly hadn't taken Hermione for a blue bra type of girl. In fact, he hadn't really considered her much of a bra type of girl at all. It wasn't that her chest wasn't perky; she'd just had this feminist attitude all the time. He remembered seeing her in school, wondering if she'd even shaved her legs or wore any makeup. Thus, he considered a bra- and a blue one, at that- to have been rather... unexpected. And how ironic that it was blue, anyway. Blue, the color of peace and tranquility- it was actually just so ironic that Draco _had_ to go about considering it.

Embarrassed, he snapped himself back to reality. His face flushed at the realization as to how long he had been staring at her chest in scrutiny of it. He had a job to do, had a girl to kill, and all he'd done was accidentally expose her. He watched her unconscious face closely, his own visage falling with his very own sheer self-loathing. "Well, this is absolutely and completely _your_ fault, you know," he informed her, panting. Then, to her sleeping face, he said, "You're lucky I didn't break your skin," before realizing that breaking the skin was the point in the first place. It was her fault that he was all shaken up. Her fault that he couldn't hex her correctly. Her fault and the liquor's, Draco decided. If his head had been clear, if Hermione hadn't been so damaged... he could have done it. He certainly could have, of course.

Nonetheless, he was positive that he had done enough damage for today. Granted, he hadn't exactly injured Granger, but he'd injured his confidence in the process and now he was left to go pick up the pieces. He wondered what he'd do then, once he'd found his way up to his room. Really, he just wanted to crawl under the covers. He didn't want to think about Hermione Granger or her hert beating behind her chest or her bra or why, of all colors, she'd chosen blue. In fact, he just wanted to find the bottle of liquor under his bed. He was certain that Goyle and Crabbe would be asleep, and he could have the entire thing for himself. He needed it, too... needed to forget this night so that next time he could start fresh.

So he picked himself back up. A clumsy, stumbling little cripple of a mess, he staggered back to Hermione with his eyes shut so that he did not feel as if he were gawking at her. His fingers grabbed Hermione's side and he sneered in her ear, "you better make this look convincing." Thus, he placed her back over on her side before lowering her down to her back, slipping her onto her stomach and turning her cheek so that she could face the staircase. He froze when she'd moaned, a groan mixed with the pains of her injuries and the naivety of sleep. And this time, he'd hurried onwards, desiring only to get out of the cellar as soon as physically possible.

To make himself look convincing, he took a fistful of her tangled hair in his palm and slashed it along her cheek. He lifted her arms and positioned them behind her back, whispered, _"incarcerous,"_ so that her wrists became bound there by ropes. His hand dove down by her shoes and, for good measure, he pulled one of her sneakers from her feet. Then, with emphasis, he hurdled it across the room. It hit the wall opposite him and thudded to the ground lifelessly soon after. And then he was back to work, making Hermione look as if he had truly tortured the living daylights out of her. When he'd finally finished, however, he did not take time to check his work.

Instead, he scampered up instantly. His stumbling feet carried him upstairs and he remained looking away from her, though he really, really didn't know why. He lunged towards the doorknob so readily, and slammed his knuckles down upon the surface of the door and waited to be let out. And he waited without looking back down the stairs at Hermione; he waited with his eyes shut and his breath held and his hands shoved so deep into the pocket of his trousers.

He heard the oncoming footsteps of whom he guess to be Fenir Greyback and he pushed his hair out of his face. He swallowed his spit and readjusted himself to look proper. And when the door flung open and the werewolf was standing there before him, and let the man grab his arm and direct him out of the way before turning to the Cellar Door again and locking it with a spell that was hissed and satisfied. Thus, they led him to his room without a word, pushed him through the doorframe with envy. They'd discuss his doings later, inspect Hermione's person, probably. But Draco wasn't too concerned about that now... not anymore.

What he did was exactly what he'd wanted to do. He saw the figures of Crabbe and Goyle in their beds, heard Goyle's snoring and Crabbe's envious huffing. Draco had made it half way to his bed when Crabbe asked, "did you do it?"

And Draco responded, frozen in the middle of his bedroom, "of course I did."

Crabbe's eyes twinkled in the dark. He must have gotten to Draco's liquor without asking. He crunched up his face, wrinkling his nose. "I didn't hear any screaming."

Draco's face drained and he looked back to his bed with longing. "She passed out."

His lie, however, seemed to at least buy him time. Crabbe turned back over in his bed, adjusted himself to face the window, and Draco took the chance to go to his mattress. Thus, he piled into it, forcing his head onto his pillow with lack of any strength whatsoever. The room was quiet and Crabbe seemed to be contemplating. "Why show her any mercy?" he asked Draco but remained facing the side of the wall.

Malfoy flinched, searching his head for an answer. "To build up the tension," he lied, remaining still.

And Crabbe said, "Huh."

And Draco said, "Goodnight," but he was one hundred percent certain that neither of them slept.

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**Vonne: **Please let me know what you think! I am looking forward to writing long chapters such as this for this story. I have great things planned and I can't wait to get this started! Basket Case is being finished up and the next chapter should come soon. It will go very fast from there. Once Basket Case is done, this 'Cellar Door' will become my main focus. So please, motivate me! Thank you!


	3. Werewolf Heart

**nne:** Hello! It's finally time to get 'Cellar Door' up and running. It's been a bit of a while since I concluded 'Basket Case' and I am definitely ready to start up an entirely new fiction again. I am so excited to see how many people have already added this to their list of favorites or have put this on alert. Please do not hesitate to leave me a review, it motivates and inspires me every time.

**Tabbyreynolds: **Thank you! I'm glad you are liking the pace of this so far. My worry is that this chapter may be a bit of a filler chapter, but the end is definitely an important starting off point. I hope you enjoy this chapter just as much as you've enjoyed the first too so far. Definitely let me know what you think!

**Ali-Lou:** The thing about 'Basket Case' being over is that now I have to start new and hope that this new story takes off as well as 'Basket Case' and 'Radio' already have. I have a pretty fair plan for this fanfiction so far and I really hope that it is liked. Thanks so much for coming back to check out the other stories I am working on. It means so much.

**CoreyFitzwilliam: **Hello again! I'm excited that you're excited for this fanfiction to continue. This is definitely going to be one of my more darker fanfictions, but I have some plans for it that are also romantic and humorous, as well. Especially romantic. Hermione and Draco will definitely share another sort of deep bond and their escape from the Death Eaters is going to be a big point. Thank you so much for your returning interest!

**Pearlrose33: **Thank you very much! Unfortunately, 'Cellar Door' is going to be one of my more darker fanfictions. I have another new story in the works that is going to focus on a bit of a more lighter and more humorous side, which I actually started based off of your review. I would like to focus my topics on things that aren't dark, as well, I just do love writing angst. Hopefully you can find something about 'Everything Must Go' that is lighter for you! And if you do decided to stick will 'Cellar Door', I promise that it is not all dark. Hermione and Draco will definitely bond in a romanic way that could overcast a bit of the darkness that this story has to offer.

**Mioniexx: **Hello! I'm sorry that it took a while for me to update, but I promise that I will definitely be on top of my game from now on. This chapter feels a bit like a filler, but I can assure you that the end is the premise for a bit of a shift in the story. Hopefully you'll see what I mean after you finish! Thank you so much for your review, and I hope you enjoy this chapter, as well.

**TragicSlytherin: **Wow, I reread what I had wrote and you're absolutely right. I did mean the Imperious Curse. Thank you for pointing out my mistakes. I tend to type these chapters as fast as possible and I also do not have a Beta reader, so everything that I submit to you is my first draft. I really appreciate all the close attention you've paid to the last chapter and I definitely will try to be more careful in the future! Anyway, I'm glad that you're enjoying this so far! Glad to hear from you again, as well.

**Isabella120: **Thank you! I'm so glad that you're enjoying this so far. I'm so glad that you think I've captured the maliciousness of the Death Eaters; I've certainly been practicing. I hope you like this chapter as well! Thank you so much for your review.

**Voixia669: **Thank you so much! I'm so glad that you're enjoy this so far! I work really hard on trying to write these perfectly and I'm really happy that it is liked. You have no idea how much I vale compliments like that. So, really, thank you again. I hope you enjoy this next chapter- its going to pick up greatly after this chapter is done.

**Miss Lyra: **Definitely! I've been trying to extend my chapters a bit, but I'm glad that it was considered a long one- HAH. That was the goal, actually. I'm so glad that you're enjoying this so far. I have so much planned for it and I'm excited to develop it further. After this chapter, things are going to move at a fast pace, and I'm so thrilled to get started. Thank you so much for your review, and I'm happy that you're content with the addition of Crabbe and Goyle. I totally agree with you- not many fanfictions bother to show them at all. However, I definitely love to include them. They were a big part of Draco's life, huh? Anyway, thanks a lot!

Also, a big thank you to those that I could not get back to today. I am so sorry! Thank you so much to: **McLanna**, **LivelyMcBrighten**, **CARL**, and **Psychic City.**

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"You'd look nice, in a grave. I smile at the moon; death is on my face."

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Chapter Three:  
Werewolf Heart

Hermione Jean Granger didn't remember much about the night that she was taken away from Harry and Ron, but what she did remember was killing her. In a haze, she'd opened her eyes to complete darkness, and if the throbbing in her head wasn't enough, she was fairly horrified to find that the front of her shirt had been violently torn open. Still, the memories swept back into her buzzing mind and flashed through her head, back before her eyes as if she were only a spectator on the scene. Then, she remembered how she'd been walking and the way her heart pounded when she'd seen the first shadow form in the place ahead of her near the bushes. It had stepped forward then, came towards her in a way that was almost slippery; he'd shouted the hex, and she'd felt an impossible pressure on her shoulders. Then, she had been lifted. The hands that had stunned her then curled around her thin body and hoisted her off the ground so that her head bobbed backwards and her arms lulled downwards. She could hear her own strained breaths, could feel herself being shifted, and then she lost consciousness.

But that had been days ago, from what Hermione had guessed, and since then she had been in and out of her own awareness to find that she now resided in a place that was unfamiliar. Her back had been on the stone, pressed against the ground so hard that it had begun to dig through the fabric of her shirt and cut against her flesh. She'd been on the floor in that manner for hours, body twisted, bleeding, and aching, alone and unmoving. Attempting to pick herself up had been useless and her voice was far too dry to cry out. However, she had not been left in solitude for too long; a door had opened and an ample amount of hooded figures had made themselves shown. She was not alone, she was very far from it.

The Death Eaters had made quite certain that she was aware of her company, of course. They'd made it perfectly undeniable; over the course of her stay in what she'd soon found to be was the cellar in the Malfoy Manor, she'd been hexed, cursed, and tortured. They'd snipped at her skin and tugged at her hair to the point of exhaustion and Hermione was barely even sure much of it she had been conscious for. Yet the burning sensation in her chest kept her certain. They'd taken her wand and her ability to move at all. Every breath was a chore, every wince a task. She could only sit and stare at the arches on the ceiling and the bars at the end of the hall. And she was scared- so, so, so scared, perhaps even more scared than she had ever been in her whole life.

On this particular evening, however, Hermione had woken up to a hole in her shirt and a pile of previously unseen bile in the corner that she was certain was not hers. Her curly brunette hair was matted, dried in blood that was crusted and maroon. She tasted iron in her mouth, felt dirt beneath her back. Her eyes were swollen shut; she could tell by the way small tears dripped from her cheeks and onto her sullen collarbone. But with the only strength she could muster, Hermione reached her arm forward. Her fingers found the stone in front of her and, clawing for the wall, she tried to draw herself upwards. The effort was useless; she couldn't move, she could barely even breathe. And with her last ditch effort, Hermione Granger thought of Ron and of Harry. Out there somewhere, she knew that they'd come looking for her. She prayed that they were safe.

Only, the whirling swell that flooded through her head made her feel weak and she shut her eyes as she let herself sink back into the stone. This was it, she'd assumed, there and then; she was going to die here. However, her strength was not strong enough in order for her to wish the world around her a fond farewell. Instead, she lie by herself, keeping her head on the ground and her arms at her side. She squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed the blood that ran down the back of her open throat. Then, blinking up at the ceiling, Hermione's head fell back and her chest slipped downwards. Sooner or later she suspected that she was going to die there, yet she only wished that she were ready for it.

Something, however, cut off her thoughts. In the middle of her perpetual wonderment, Hermione heard the swing of the cellar door pull itself open again. Footsteps infiltrated her silence, sounding out around her as an echo and nothing more. Her eyes swiveled around, glistening in the darkness to find the owner of the newfound intruder. In the lack of light she saw a shadow in black, a fitted suit, and a head of blond hair that was almost white in color. Her vision blocked by the daze of tears, Hermione only gawked, gasping up at the tall and lanky man with a bit of a struggle. He was at the end of the hall, but he seemed to have frozen at the sound of her hoarse yelp. Something about his posture was far from poised. He lacked the excitement that she had noted about the other Death Eaters, lacked the confidence. And the sound of his own breaths were almost just as audible as her own. In the corner, he stood with his hand around his own wand, his head ducked in cautious apprehension of Hermione's arousal. Hermione couldn't identify him, but he was not moving and she wondered why.

Yet, while the footstep's falter was long lasting, they sounded back out in the room in a manner that was forceful and full of anxiety. There came a quick scuffle and then a shift in the air around her. Hermione Granger saw the figure before her eyes bend down and then crouch down. He looked at her in a manner that was horrified and perplexed. His wand looked loose and limp in his spidery fingers. He was Draco Malfoy and Hermione now knew- she'd recognize that face anywhere from school as a girl. But there was no look of anticipation on his features. Rather, he looked down at her in a way that terrified her to her very core. She waited for him to hex her, waited for him to act, yet nothing came. Something about him was lost and broken. He was only a boy and she was only the victim. He didn't move a muscle, he barely even breathed.

But perhaps Hermione had underestimated how awful she must have looked. Malfoy's face was pale and stricken- he looked as if he had seen a ghost, had prematurely witnessed her death. Though still he wasn't moving. Only his cold, gray eyes held onto her large and hazy brown ones. Every so often she managed to loose her focus, blur his features together in a wonky way that was twisted and blurred. His sharp visage transformed into one that was far from distinct. His blond hair looked frantic, his breath cold and laced with whiskey in front of her nostrils.

And she was certain she had never smelt so much alcohol in her life. Every exhale he'd poured out in front of her made her want to cringe, if only she could manage to move as much. He looked absolutely intoxicated, each line on his face clear even without any light whatsoever. And the circles underneath his eyes were black and intense. He looked as if he hadn't slept in days, weeks even. He couldn't hold himself still. Every passing second sent a vibrancy of shakes up his torso that she knew to be uncontrollable. He looked desolate, as if in an out of a dream, only sleepwalking to take a simple check on her.

She saw the wand in his hand; he wasn't paying it any attention. The way he say kneeling in front of her was as if he hadn't even remembered he'd had it. She wanted to move for it, yet her ability to do so was limited. Instead, she only breathed back in, her ripped shirt rising with her chest in a way that made it appear as if her breath were truly her last. The moment, however, was long as they stared back and forth at one another, gray eyes interlocking within her brown ones. And she then lifted her shaky hand, writhing her fingers out in front of her chest in one last ditch effort to make a break for his weapon. It was all the more true that she just couldn't help herself; she knew that the effort was useless, yet she tried to make a pass at it anyways. Her spine ached and her shoulders felt as if they were bond to fall uselessly. But there was nothing to loose, nothing more anyway.

Nonetheless, as she'd predicted, the slight flinch from her body had snapped Malfoy out of his own delirium. He spotted her moving hand, jolted backwards and scuttled away from her like a crab. His feet scuffed the stone and he breathed out in a restrained manner that made her suspect that he was trying to hide his fear from the Death Eaters that may have possibly heard him from the hallways of the Manor itself. Still, she flopped back downwards in her failure, not completely surprised by her lack of success. It was her absent strength, however, that had washed out of her and her head fell against the floor for the third time in the night. But Malfoy only watched her breathing, panic etched on his face as if someone had carved it there greedily. He was breathing, his hands clenched so tightly around the circumference of his wand that his knuckles had turned a bright shade of translucent white. And his visage was pouring sweat, running heavily down his face in a hint of desperation. He had called out, scampered like a child back away from her and she was certain he'd scraped his palms in the process- blood trailed from the end of his hands on the ground and, despite the possibility that it had been her own, Hermione could not rid herself of the suspicion that some of it had been his.

She did not, however, get much of a chance to get much of a better look at him. What she saw was the raising of his wand and the heave of his chest. He had backed himself against the wall of the pillar behind him, and his feet were out in front of him in a strange way that made him look crippled and a bit broken. Yet she could not mistake the way his mouth moved. Silent yet fast, as if he were more than anxious to get the spell over with, Draco Malfoy's eyes looked a little moist, but Hermione was certain that it was the faulty condition of her own eyesight that made her think them to be so.

However, she could not help but think how much he sounded just like a child when he stammered, _"stupefy!"_

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"How was she?"

The question had started Draco, who whirled around with his eyes wide and his mouth agape to find himself face to face with Fenrir Greyback. The sickly looking man had only stood stilly, his eyebrow raised in a considerable manner that made him appear hostile, and perhaps even more so. Yet his posture kept him rooted. The smile on his face was undeniable and he seemed to only relish in the fact that he had already truly known the answer about the condition that Hermione Granger had found herself in.

Yet, despite the grin and the jagged complexion of the man's teeth, Draco knew that Fenrir was deadly serious; these were Death Eaters that he was dealing with, of course, and there was no denying it. But it was more than the presence of the man that made Draco's blood run cold. The question, despite how obvious, sent a jagged chill run up his spine. How was she? Draco tried not to think about it. She'd looked far worse that she had the last time he had seen her. Of course, he definitely had not expected her to have been awake...

"Oi, _boy..._" Fenir's voice was snake-like, hissing in his ear in a way that was harsh like wind. His yellow eyes one-upped Draco and his submissive stance in the middle of the living room where he had been crossing to make it back to his bed. "Are you bloody deaf?" Draco could feel his heart beating faster in his chest and he felt the childish urge to rush off to his father, though he wasn't exactly certain where Lucius had gone off to during most of his days. He guessed the Ministry and felt a sudden ping of loss at the realization of his solitude. And then he snapped back to reality- to the Manor and his spot in the middle of the room, to Fenrir Greyback practically breathing down the flesh of his exposed neck, and to Hermione Granger.

"Sleeping," Draco choked, yet it had been quite hard for him to spit out the rest. All in all, he wasn't exactly sure why he'd spat out the lie, but he told himself that it was not for Hermione's sake, but instead his own. If Fenrir knew he had seen Granger awake, he would have asked why he also had not heard her scream. Draco was smart, strategic. He told himself this over and over again so that he would not get his intellect confused with true concern for that Hermione Granger. Her situation was her fault. She shouldn't have gone and gotten herself caught. And since it was not his job to protect her, only to protect himself. So he'd told Fenrir that she had been sleepng; but he'd done it out of stragety, not for her. Right.

Fenrir's breath rattled at the posterior of Draco's stature. It made his knees weak and his heat pound faster in his chest. "Sleeping?" growled the beast-like man, his hands clawing out so that they garnered themselves a massive grip on Draco's sinking shoulder. "The Mudblood is sleeping, is she?"

"... At least... when I s-saw her last," Malfoy insisted, and the pressure on his body became almost unbearable. He was whirled around, pinned to the wall of the staircase so that he was looking into Fenrir's beady yellow eyes. And something harsh flashed behind them, igniting his pupils. He could almost smell the scent of Draco's fib, but his expression only remained tinted with suspicion. Thus, the man's lips curled and he pressed his gigantic body up against Malfoy's wiry one.

The werewolf's face gave a slight twitch, yet he remained aggressive. Though for a split moment he appeared to have thought Malfoy to have been lying, yet his doubt had apparently subsided. Instead, he decided to press forward with the subject, running his meaty hands up Draco's shoulder and wrapping his fingers forcefully around the bulk of his slender neck. Malfoy's heart skipped a beat; the look in Fenrir's eyes had almost devoured him. The man looked hungry, eager to maim him as he had done Remus Lupin and Bill Weasley. The risk of being bitten by Fenrir had always haunted Draco, always kept him up late at night. And now something about the man had taunted him, made him appear eager and all the more ready.

However, fear kept Draco rooted; he allowed the man to run his hands through his hair before digging his fingernails into his skull and making him whimper. Then he huffed, exhaling a scent of breath that had smelt as if it had sat in his mouth rotting for years. "Has she been sleeping... peacefully, boy?"

Malfoy shook his head as much as he was allowed to. "Nightmares," he reported, feeling himself grow perhaps even more frantic.

"What?" Fenrir pressed his face closer, tilting it to one side as if he had not quite understood. "Nightmares?"

"L-Loads of them, s-sir. She's b-been m-muttering..."

"Muttering? Muttering _what?_"

Draco sputtered, for he could only get his words out in the form of a choked struggle. "About Potter... a-and W-Weasley." It was the first thing he could think of and, all things considered, perhaps the most convincing. Why wouldn't Hermione be muttering about Harry Potter and his ginger friend, Ron Weasley? Her expectancy to be saved by the two of them had been suspected. And, to Draco's satisfaction, the fabricated bit of information seemed only to spark something positive in Fenrir's stature. He stood stilly for a moment, considering Hermione Granger's desperation and subconscious pleas, and then stepped back, pushing Malfoy's head away from him lightly in the process so that it hit the wall and Draco almost lost his posture.

Yet he stood only at a slight distance, his arms at his side and his wand in his fingers. "Good," was all he said at first, before staring back at the cellar door in somewhat of a trace. It had never been argued about the Fenrir had a bit of an aggressive spot towards Hermione Granger. Her status as a Mudblood, of course, did not quite help her situation either. Yet Fenrir had been forced to wait his turn- biting her had perhaps not been included in the final plan for the girl, and Malfoy could truly see the obvious frustration behind his stoney gaze. "You are contributing to these nightmares, aren't you, boy?"

Contributing? Malfoy's head rushed; after having been slammed against the wall, he could not help but feel a bit tainted with haze and nausea, yet he struggled to remain quick with a lie at the ready. But Draco could only nod, stepping back against the staircase so that he had a spot as far away from Fenrir as possible. "As it should be," growled the man, and he turned back to press the end of his thin wand back underneath Malfoy's shaky chin. "You're supposed to come with me, you know..." he murmured, as if it were a secret. "You've been called for, boy."

Fenrir's hands reached out and he took a hefty handful of the collar of Malfoy's black tuxedo. He smirked at the flicker of fear that passed through the blond, who winced as if he were about to be punched. However, the werewolf let him go, releasing him aggressively before striding back away from him before muttering, "dining room. I suggest you go when you are called for." And Draco did not need to be told twice. He had not time to collect himself, but he stumbled away from the steps anyways, stammering across the marble floor of his own home to follow the man at a rather impressive pace. And his head throbbed with the rush of having been summoned, yet his better senses told him that following orders was truly the only choice that he'd had.

He was this far in; he'd been given the task by the Dark Lord himself to deal with Hermione as a way to redeem his family name. And he knew that the Death Eaters were not happy about this. He, Draco, had already lost his chance... wasn't truly fit to have earned a second one. Thus, he knew that all he could do was choose his moves wisely. The Death Eaters were watching him, making sure that he did not screw everything up for the second time in a row. And Malfoy couldn't help but feel that his life was on the line... knew that any wrong move would be his absolute last. So he could not help himself- he had to follow Fenrir, had to keep himself silent. Dark times these were, and Draco Malfoy... he had chosen his side.

Nonetheless, he broke through the kissing doors to find the lot of them seated. Around the extensive dinning room table, the Death Eaters look up at him as if they had been waiting for him for quite some time now. He could see his mother and father, their eyes on the floor, and Gregory Goyle, who had sat in the same position of timid reluctancy. Only Crabbe had bothered to try and assume the same standard look as the others had; eyes forward, he watched Draco as if he had shown up late for the scheduled appointment. Yet there was something about the air in his chest that had given away his tenseness. Red, his shoulders were bent slightly towards the table's surface, and his fingers fiddled around one another. When Bellatrix Lestrange slipped forward in her seat out of the shadows, his mouth gave a fearful little jolt.

"Ah," she mused, looking both exhausted and angry, "Draco..." The way her hand curled out made him freeze, and he looked towards his father with a sense of longing that he did not dare show in his face. Rather, he remained unintentionally upright, his hand still on the doorknob of the doors. Inwardly he felt as if his knees could have gone weak. Sick with the suggestion of another meeting, Draco swallowed the large lump at the back of his throat. Their stares made him ill with worry, nauseated with the sway of having been trapped. "How kind of you to finally join us."

"... I-I w-was..."

"All is forgiven," Bellatrix promised lightly, but her breath almost visible in the chilly room. The freezing cold atmosphere made Draco want to leave the Manor all over again; before the Death Eaters, before the idea of another War, his parents had always kept the house warm with a fire. Everything had felt so comforting then, simple even... now, nothing was the same. "Come along, Draco... sit."

Obedient, Draco took his place. Near his father and mother, he settled himself down into his chair and averted his eyes to Goyle, hoping to see a hint of what he had been called for in his eyes. Yet the gaze in Goyle's face told him nothing; Goyle had not known either, and Crabbe appeared just as clueless. Yet only the youngest three appeared unaware. Under strict scrutiny, Draco, Goyle, and Crabbe could sense that the focus of the conversation was about to be pushed upon them, yet they sat in silence as if too horrified to inquire.

"As you know," Bellatrix continued, "the War is drawing close upon us." Narcissa moved her foot from the floor to nudge her lovely heel against Draco's polished shoe. "This mens, that there must be some... adjustments." The Lestrange woman appeared unstable as she'd said it, almost bitter about the hidden arrangements. Yet she leaned her entire body across the tabletop, her eyes scanning Draco's front as if she were trying to figure something out about him. Her curly black hair fell lazily across her pale visage, covering half of her eyes in a manner that made her all the more daunting to the others. But her lips moved slyly with every spoken syllable. Her jaw was stiff with the intensity of the silent moment. "The Dark Lord," she whispered, "requires our assistance."

"_Our _assistance?"

Bellatrix Lestrange shifted in her speech. Her eyes moved slowly like glaciers across the table and she finally found the face of the boy who had cut her off- Vincent Crabbe. He sat by himself in his seat, his shoulders draped and his eyes glazed over. He looked stiff, tense with the realization that he had spoken out of turn. But Draco instantly caught on to the look of intoxication on his face. He looked green, tired with having been woken from a hungover sleep. Still, nonetheless, he tried to compose himself. As Bellatrix found his shivering torso, Crabbe resisted the urge to chew vicariously on his bottom lip.

"What?" Bellatrix snapped, her eyes growing excessively smaller. "Our assistance?"

Vincent Crabbe shrunk away, regretting having spoken out at all. Yet he strove to defend himself, though his desire to do so was only truly for his own advancement into the Death Eaters' inner circle. "I... just m-meant to a-ask... if the Dark Lord also required mine, Goyle's, and Draco's, as w-well..." he was frantic, Malfoy could see it in his eyes. Yet he gave it away in his slanted composure, uncertain and crooked in his seat before the other Death Eaters. But Draco knew how much Crabbe desired to gain their approval, how much he wanted it more than anything. His inquiry was more a hope than it truly was anything else- if the Dark Lord needed his assistance, he would have accomplished half his dream entirely.

However, Bellatrix appeared all the more amused by the boy's obvious question. Her posture curled; twisting, she redirected herself so that she was face to face with Crabbe. "The three of you?" she asked, looking innocent and murderous at the same time. "Now why would the Dark Lord require the useless assistance of someone like the three of you?" She was strict, adamant, yet she waited patiently for an answer with one arched eyebrow lifted in vain. However, no instant answer came to her and, amused with Crabbe's blatant horror, she turned back to Draco in a matter that was defiant and justified. "What the Dark Lord _does_ need, however, is something of a... hmm, what would you call it, Amycus?"

The Death Eater at her far right grimaced, yet his frown was fabricated. He looked far too amused in what he was about to say and, at the moment he finally spat it out, he made certain to shoot Draco a warning glance of superiority. "What he needs is three house sitters."

"Ah," Bellatrix huffed gently, lifting a finger so that it grazed the side of Draco's cheek in a gentle way that was almost too loving for an aunt. She curled her nail into Draco's messy blond hair and sent Amycus a smile that was both beautiful and horrible at the same time. "That's it." Gently, she let her pointer fall down, remaining only close to Draco in a way that made him want to turn and run. However, he could not deny his father and the overwhelming need to make him proud. The look in his iris made Draco's heart sink- he had disappointed him once, and he only wished he could take it all back.

Thus, Malfoy cleared his throat. Neither Goyle or Crabbe opted upon speaking again, so he took his chance as he saw it. "A house sitter?" he asked, appearing both weak and daunted. Lucius' head fell down even further, and he looked as if he were about to fall apart. The terrified expression in his light eyes made Malfoy feel insecure and aware of every hostile gaze.

"Three house sitters, for that matter," giggled Alecto, and her plump body bounced around her seat as she laughed vibrantly.

"Ah..." breathed the others. It was agreed upon whole-heartedly, and select chuckles could be heard around the room as further clarification. Yet Draco, Goyle, and Crabbe sat stilly, unable to move without feeling comfortable on their own. And Draco couldn't help but look at his father, who sent him a sympathetic glance of worry before falling back into himself once again. Narcissa rest her hand on her son's knee, her thumb moving back and forth by means of simple support. Yet neither of his parents opted to move any further; Draco could sense their overwhelming terror from every angle of his very being.

"We will be taking leave," Bellatrix explained, "the lot of us... however, we need the three of you to remain put. Should Potter and his slippery friend come around, of course." Then she flashed them the set of her rotten teeth, looking exuberant. "I am, of course, under the impression that the three of you are aware of _how_ exactly to summon us if such an event occurs?"

Draco gulped; of course they knew. They had made certain of that, without a doubt. Having been branded with the Dark Mark, Draco was positive he would never forget such tactics. All he'd had to do was touch it... simply touch it and they'd come. It was so simple, and yet the thought chilled him to the very bone. "Yes," he said a loud, feeling a bit more comfortable at the look in his father's eyes once he had spoken without a stammer.

Bellatrix's smile just about tripled. "And I trust, should I and the other Death Eaters be called, you three will use it?"

"Yes." This time, Crabbe took his turn to speak, and he looked fully intent on calling anyone who required his assistance. Something about him, however, seemed let down, as if being notified that he would be among the three left behind had truly crushed him. Nonetheless, he appeared ready to do the job, if forced to. The condition of him seemed all the more prepared, as if he couldn't imagine anything else that could permit him to gaining speed into the world of a Death Eater.

And Draco could tell, Vincent Crabbe was ready.

* * *

In the middle of the house, Draco Malfoy let out a long and overdue breath. They had gone, the Death Eaters, and everything seemed that much more silent. Thus, he remained still, standing in the middle of his very own house with a bottle of his father's finest wine in his hand, and his wand in the other. He'd said goodbye to his parents- the two of them looked sick and ill, but they'd kissed him graciously on the forehead and departed as they had been ordered to do. This was their time, not his. He had been given an order: watch over the house, do what he please with the girl, and call if assistance was needed. However, Draco couldn't help but feel safe, relieved even. Everything was silent; the ghosts in the house had gone.

Thus, only he Crabbe and Goyle remained. They stood in the center of the house as if taking it in, barely aware of the loud moans coming from the cellar below them. They'd been given a task, though neither of them had been quite sure on how to begin it. Only Goyle, who seemed the most relieved of the three, had suggested the alcohol, and so Draco had gone to fetch it. Of course, he'd wasted no time on popping off the cork, pouring the lot of them their nightly glasses with an expression that was grim and undeniably tainted.

He couldn't help the panic that arose in his chest, it was a feeling of unease and uncertainty. And he couldn't explain it, the feeling, the way his heart beat faster and faster at the sounds of the other's breaths, or the feeling of another's eyes at his back. It was the feeling of being watched without truly knowing it, the feeling that, despite everything, they were far from alone.

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**Vonne: **I will have the next chapter as soon as possible! Please don't hesitate to review and let me know what you think- the more reviews the faster I update and I am definitely ready to jump start this fanfiction! Thank you so much, everyone!


	4. Young and Tragic

**Vonne: **Finally I've got a bit of my act together with updating these things. I'm sorry about the length of time I've been taking. I'm literally on and off the internet so quickly these days that I don't have time to do much of anything. However, as promised:

**Isabella120: **Thank you so much! I'm so happy to see you back whenever I have a new story posted and running. I appreciate it so much and I'm so happy that you're enjoying what you read. I hope you like this chapter, as well. It's a bit on the longer side for you.

**TragicSltyherin: **Ah! You have no idea how much your review was a compliment to me! Thank you very much! I hope you enjoy this chapter just as much. I tried to make it on the longer side, as well, so that you were able to read more. Thank you, thank you. You've really motivated me to keep writing.

**TabbyReynolds: **Aw, thank you so much! I am so happy that you enjoy reading this as much as you do. It's so motivating for me and it makes me want to update this story so fast. I hope that you like this chapter, too. It's somewhere around 5,500 words, so it's definitely on the longer side. The upcoming chapter will definitely have a lot of interaction between Draco and Hermione, as you will be able to tell by the end of this chapter. I'm also really glad that you like the pace of this so far. I try and make everything as realistic as possible and, of course, Hermione and Draco would never develop a relationship unless it was done in the right way. Your review really made my day! Thank you so much!

**ChesireCat23: **Yes, definitely, Bellatrix is long gone... at least for now. ;)**  
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**Corey Fitzwilliam: **Thank you! I hope you end up liking the direction of this- but definitely don't hesitate to tell me what you think! I'd love to hear it all!

**ForbiddenLuv: **Thank you very much! I hope you enjoy this chapter, as well.

**Ali-Lou: **Thank you! I'm so glad you like where this is going so far and I'm glad you're happy with the way the characters are portrayed. I've always loved giving Crabbe and Goyle a bit of depth to them- of course, Crabbe always gets to be the bully because of his role in the last book. I imagine the he'd become a bit hardened around that time. However, as much as these interpretations are a bit of my own fantasy, I'd like to think that they weren't far from the mark. I mean, Draco's not all bad... in fact, I wouldn't even consider him bad at all, you know. He was born into the family, was pretty much forced to be the way he was. It's so funny, because every time I tell someone he's my favorite character, they'll say, "but he's such a pussy!" HA! They just don't understand... he's just misunderstood. ;)

**Volixia669: **Oh good! I'm glad you found this one, then! I'm planning on making this a bit darker, as I usually tend to anyways. I hope you end up enjoying the direction I take it to. Thank you so much for your review! I hope you like this chapter, as well!

**LiveLoveShea: **You have no idea how much I loved reading your review! Thank you so much for the compliments, things like that make me want to write more chapters super fast just so they can get up and published. I'm so happy that you find this realistic so far. As for the alcohol thing, I've known a bunch of alcoholics in my day, and I definitely know how it can be. If I were put in a situation like Draco is in, I'm not sure how I would cope, but it would definitely be very difficult. Thank you so, so much for your kind review! I hope you enjoy this chapter just as much... plenty of angst. ;)

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_"I wish that we were magic, so we would not be so young, and tragic."_

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**Chapter Four**  
**Young and Tragic**

Draco Malfoy could only guess, but the night seemed just still enough for the tension to finally drop. He, Goyle, and Crabbe ceased walking on egg-shells, stopped waiting for the sound of the Death Eaters pacing up to the front door to declare their departure a test, a joke, a ruse. They had declared it safe and, in celebration, popped open two tall bottles of rum with steadier sighs and more confident smiles. Thus, there they sat sprawled out on the couches of the Manor's living room, a firm fire sparking in the place nearest them. It had been one full day since the three had been left alone and, much to their appreciation, it seemed that their absence would remain, at least for a while.

And so Draco could finally breathe again, while Goyle no longer had to avert his eyes. Crabbe, however, was the only remanent that stayed hostile. Stiff, despite his intoxication, he regarded their solitude as nothing more than a mission- they were going to have to prove themselves to the Death Eaters in one way or another, and this, like it or not, was the way that they were going to do it. Over the rim of his alcoholic glass he peered, eyes narrowed so that he could perhaps get a better look at the two others that he had been left with. He watched Draco, staggering pathetically across the room, as he reached over to refill the lot of their drinks whole-heartedly. The blond had appeared only fractionally more relaxed than he had when the Death Eaters had inhabited the house and Vincent Crabbe had definitely noticed it. Nonetheless, he remained quiet in his scrutiny. He watched Draco lean back away from pouring him his drink and place the empty glass back on the coffee table. Still, he was certain that Draco's eyes flicked once to the hallway leading to the Cellar just as he sunk back into the sturdy cushions.

So, with a smug smile, he lifted up his glass and watched the way it twinkled in the light of the orange fire. It was his initiative, his first move into the progression of an actual conversation with the two of them there. He made the effort and went for it, breathing in casually in the way that he said, "this is it, mates, this is everything we've been waiting for." He waited for the sound of agreement to fill his ears, waited for a matter of time that was admittedly a bit too prolonged for his taste. "Isn't it?" he asked, sinking back. He knew he had them trapped, but he had been perhaps too drunk to care. It was, of course, distinctly unlike his usual demeanor, where he took to probing the two until they finally would succumb to agreeing with him. His sprits this time, however, had been too high- it seemed that now he was having more fun simply just toying with them.

Nonetheless, Goyle did not seem to catch on right away to anything Crabbe had been saying at all. Blinking, he shifted his weight on the couch and exhaled. "It certainly takes a weight off of my shoulders," he said, extending a finger into his own chest. "I feel like... there's no one breathing down my back anymore." With that, his red face formed an overwhelming grin, and he gobbled down the rest of his drink with a greedy little slurp.

Crabbe's eyes formed into two distinct slits. "That's hardly what I'm on about, Goyle," he stated, and the fattest of the lot sat back up. "Come on now, mate," Crabbe hissed, "you can't be bloody serious- the Death Eaters? You think that all _this_," he lifted his glass for emphasis, "is about the Death Eaters?"

"Err...?" Goyle glanced towards his left for support. Unfortunately, Draco Malfoy was not truly paying him much attention. Instead, he'd positioned himself face down on the couch and had buried the front of his visage within the soft fabric of the couch pillow he had been hugging. Crabbe rolled his eyes; the boy was a pathetic drunk. Nonetheless, he was not stupid- Goyle knew that sleep was only something he was currently feigning. Rather, he allowed his focus to remain on Goyle, whose eyes traveled away from Malfoy's lean figure to find Goyle's all over again. "I mean," Goyle continued, "it certainly helps with... what it is that you are talking about." He sniffed, wiping his nose with the meatiest part of his arm, and offered Crabbe an apologetic smile before looking down sheepishly at the soles of his shoes.

"I'm _talking_ about the opportunity, Goyle, the opportunity!" He thrust his drink out and then slammed it back down on the table. "We are getting a chance to call the cards around here, mate! The chance to run this entire operation ourselves!" He cocked his head towards the Cellar Door and a flicker in his eyes told the boy that he was completely serious. "You've got to know what I'm talking about Goyle..." Crabbe paused, lifting his eyebrow for effect, and then Gregory Goyle nodded his head vigorously.

He smiled uneasily. "I was about to-" he started, ready to fabricate some sort of initial agreement. However, Crabbe only snored before rolling his eyes and flopping back on the couch unsatisfied. Whatever Goyle was about to proclaim he had been doing was, of course, a lie- Crabbe knew it and, frankly, he did not truly have time to encourage such ridiculousness. Thus, he slammed his broad back into the end of the couch and Goyle reddened once again before finally opting on silence.

Crabbe, however, let his eyes sweep away from Goyle and fall finally upon Draco Malfoy. The blond had been lying in that position on the couch for quite some time without even tending to the rest of what had been left over in his drink. His body rose and fell with the harsh intake of breath, and Crabbe could even imagine the defiance that Malfoy was suggesting. The lack of participation within the conversation annoyed Crabbe, made him grind his teeth spastically. He waited, however, for the boy to turn around or, at least, offer some input. When he did not make a single move, however, Crabbe begun again; perhaps he could not get Draco's participation easily, but he could surely spark his attention.

"Have you figured it out yet, Goyle?" Crabbe sneered, a flicker of a smug grin on his face.

Goyle blinked. "Figured what out?" he asked, slurring slightly from the excessive amount of whiskey he had poured down his throat.

"What you're going to do to _her_, of course," Crabbe responded, and he jabbed a finger in the direction of the hallway again.

"Who?"

"That filthy little Mudblood, Granger, you moron," Crabbe hissed, and despite the intoxication, Goyle could not help but notice the intensity of aggravation behind Crabbe's hostile slur. He leaned forward to press his elbows on his knees and almost ended up spilling his whiskey in the process. However, he managed to position himself so that he faced Goyle head on, his eyes searching him for any sort of answer at all.

"Oh, her," Goyle stammered, as if he had forgotten about Hermione in the celebration of finally having the Death Eaters off his back.

"Yes, her, Goyle! For fuck's _sake_!" In the heat of his bitterness, Goyle reached down to the pile of snacks they had strewn out all over the coffee table and chucked a piece so hard at Goyle's thick head that it bounced off and hit the floor, leaving a pink blotch on Goyle's skin as if a constant reminder. This time when Goyle threw his body back against the couch, he did so will whole-hearted emphasis, crossing his arms across his chest in a profound manner that made him look bulky and almost boulder-esque. He narrowed his focus, sliding his eyes into two distinct slits before finally whirling his attention back around to Malfoy and spiting, "and dammit, Draco, I know you're not sleeping."

Draco Malfoy scoffed, "I never said I was." With his mouth pressed so forcefully against the pillow he had been hugging, most of his sentence came out in little mumbles. Nonetheless, he remained unmoving, defiant and stubborn almost out of sheer annoyance. He had not, however, expected Crabbe to chuck a large and heavy book across the room at him in response. He heard Crabbe grunt, reach over on the couch, and then Draco felt the heft thing hit him hard in the leg. His head shot up dizzily, and his confusion, almost slipped off the couch completely. "Crabbe, what the _hell?_"

Malfoy turned to examine the condition of his legs, shaking as he whisked up the leg of his trousers to garner a better look for himself. From the light of the chandelier dangling above him, Draco could make out the deep gash the edge of the thing had made into his leg. Circular, the cut had dug fairly hard into his skin and, though only a short time had passed, the thing had already started to swell. Thus, the ache of his ankle made him feel a bit woozy, no doubt intensified by the amount of alcohol he had consumed earlier. Writhing, he allowed his head to snap back up at Goyle, silent furiousness tugging hastily at his sharp features.

Crabbe's mouth gave a slight little twitch. "Your lucky I didn't _hex_ you, you ungrateful little prat," he snapped. Draco, however, found that he could not handle himself. He swung himself to one side, finding his wand at the surface of the end table near the couch he had been laying at. On his way over to Crabbe, he kicked the book aside, approaching the larger boy with a swagger of drunken proportions that even he had not truly prepared himself for. "Ah, Draco," Crabbe teased, despite the bond having already made it up to his front quickly, "you're limping."

"Thanks to _you!_" cried Draco, shoving the tip of his wand underneath the flab of Crabbe's large neck.

"Oy!" Goyle shouted from his seat, looking terrified despite his decision to remain put.

Crabbe, however, passed him a flat glance, shrugging his shoulders high up by the lobes of his ears. "Don't worry about any of this, Goyle," he said bluntly, "old Draco here is drunk and, besides," once again he turned his face so that he was looking directly into Malfoy's glistening gray eyes, "it's not like hurting his legs made him any more useless than he already is."

Draco head whirled. He didn't hex Crabbe, but instead reached for the silver tray that had carried their snack and threw it forcefully, so much so that when it hit the wall opposite Crabbe, the bang echoed throughout the Manor for what seemed to have been several minutes. Crabbe didn't even wince; only his eyes watched Draco amusedly, a horrifying grin plastered all over his pudgy face. He watched Draco, his chest rising angrily- as timid as Draco had been over the past several months, he had to admit he had not expected his outburst, but the look in the boy's eyes signified that everything Crabbe had been suspecting about him that afternoon had been true. Having seen his face for what had seemed like the first time over the course of the entire night, Crabbe was interested to find that, despite everything, Draco appeared to have not slept in days. The bags under his eyes made him look aged, and the red tint at the end of his long nose made him concerned. He wondered how long Draco had been lying at the couch before he had stood, thinking to no one but himself in particular. Thus, curious, the larger of the two prodded, "care to share with the rest of us?" and let his brow skyrocket to his own pale forehead.

"What the bloody hell are you on about?" Draco snapped, digging his wand so harshly into Crabbe's skin that his neck was beginning to look like it was about it pop. But Draco's demeanor faltered; he shook and attempted unsuccessfully to pick himself back up. His furrowed gaze made Crabbe's smirk double, testing the fact that Draco was exactly as weak as he had come to think him to be.

Crabbe cocked his chin back towards the couch, ignoring Draco who looked as if he were on the verge of punching him. "You lying over there to yourself is what I'm bloody on about!" Crabbe counteracted and, from the side of his vision, he saw Goyle draw himself back into his seat uneasily. "You look as if you've had enough time to collect some ideas about this situation, Draco," Crabbe insisted rapidly, "please, do tell."

Malfoy could feel his heart pounding quickly in his chest. His fingers tightened around his wand and he thought about hexing Crabbe, thought about sending him flying backwards into the shelves of his mother's book case. He did not, however, move a muscle. Instead, he only remained havering, his mind running through a list of things he could say to the boy right then and there. Of course he had not been thinking up ways he could torture Granger down there in the Cellar- in fact, he had been thinking up the exact opposite. Rather, Crabbe's lidded gaze told him that his question was a challenge. Every moment that passed them by made Draco frantic; he had to think of something and he thad to think of it fast. All he could do, however, was stand there.

"Huh," Crabbe laughed, looking at the wand raised lifelessly in Draco's hand. "I thought so."

Draco shoved Crabbe so hard back on to the couch that both boys huffed, coming back away from one another quickly before Malfoy snapped, "did you? Well, if you've got so many ideas why do _you_ do any of them, then, huh?"

For a split second it seemed as if Malfoy had really done it; Crabbe's visage fell and he looked absolutely taken by the insult that Draco had chosen to throw at him. His amused face flickered and Draco, finally having succeeded in irritating the boy, only breathed anxiously, his wand still suspiciously outstretched. "All you do is sit there and scold the rest of us!" he accused, "get up and do it yourself for once!" Then, when he'd finally finished, Malfoy leaned back. He'd thought he had certainly had him cornered. All Crabbe ever did was instruct, demand. In the face of the Death Eaters he, Crabbe, had always been equally as fearful. There was no point to his harshness, to the mean demeanor he wore around the house all the time. If he had so many brilliant ideas, he certainly had not made any of them known. Thus, Draco watched the expression on Crabbe's face morph; he shifted from shock, to anger, to determination and, admittedly, Draco hadn't expected to see the last one there at all.

But Crabbe said nothing. Rather, he heaved his heavy body off of the couch without a word and made a quick grab towards his own wand, shoving the coffee table over in the process. Nonetheless, he stalked away from the living room, made his way past the fire place, and rushed across the floor as that his dark shadow cast itself tauntingly along the looming walls. "H-Hey!" shouted Goyle, who had remained in his seat the entire time. He looked troubled with concern, glancing back up at a panting Draco before finding the figure of a retreating Crabbe again. "Hey, Crabbe! W-Where a-are you g-going?"

"Exactly where Draco suggested, Goyle!" Crabbe shouted, though he did not look back. "He wants a fucking masterpiece," he continued, vanishing beyond the walls of the hallway and pausing before the Cellar Door only to open it. "I'll give him one!"

* * *

It had been somewhere around eleven when Draco had actually got worried.

He had been lying in his bed, curled around away from Goyle's sleeping figure. It had been three hours since Crabbe had left them to descend into the Cellar that contained the captured Hermione Granger and Draco had not moved a muscle. Instead, he remained underneath the sheets of his covers, staring at the mortified reflection of himself that stared back at him from the looking glass of his grand bedroom mirror. He watched his sleepless face and the black circles that had formed underneath his eyes. Drunk, his head buzzed and, despite everything, he could not stifle the feeling of persistent nausea that boiled mercilessly in the pit of his stomach.

Arguing with Crabbe, he decided, had been a horrible idea. He should never have lost his temper, should never have thrown the tray across the room or threatened to hex him. And, though the feeling of intoxication was wearing thin on him, Draco knew that there was no way he could go to sleep- not with Crabbe still gone. Yet the mystery of what Crabbe had been doing with Hermione was what had truly plagued him. Since his leave, Draco had not heard a single scream from the Cellar, and he'd guessed that the quiet had been accomplished by a silencing charm of some sort. It made him ill, uneasy, and restless. He waited for the sound of oncoming footsteps, waited for the noise of Crabbe as he lumbered up the stairs to pile back into his own bed. He heard nothing.

Ever since Goyle had passed out on his mattress, Draco's sense of solitude had doubled. Only, he watched himself watch back in the long mirror image, finding it difficult to observe the face of someone that looked like nothing more than a scared boy. Three hours, he told himself; Hermione Granger had been at the hands of Vincent Crabbe for three hours and, as much as he didn't want to admit it, it already becoming four. The beat of his heart was only making things worse, and the room around him seemed to grow more and more hot as the minutes passed. He told himself he did not feel sorry for Hermione, that his true worry rest for the stability of the three of them; he, Goyle, and Crabbe were falling apart, and he certainly had only made things worse.

His hands grabbed his knees and he finally turned away from himself once and for all. He hated himself for drinking so much, hated himself for the intolerable hangover he knew he would have the next morning. This was not what he had wanted, but then again, he didn't exactly know what it was that he did want in the long run anyways.

Then the creaking of the door made him jump and press his eyes shut so his consciousness would not be given away. There was a pause, and Malfoy was certain that the newcomer was standing there in the frame of the door, surveying the scene. Draco made sure he looked asleep, held his breath in a matter that made him appear calm, unplagued by the worry of the night. Yet, the stall did not last for too long. In the darkness of his shut lids, he heard heavy footsteps, breathed slowly as they clamored across the floorboards of his bedroom towards the only other empty bed in the place. Draco heard Crabbe cough, clearing his throat as he turned to the buttons of his shirt before pulling it off completely. The shift around him told Draco that he had reached for his flannel pyjama top and, with a nervous sigh, Draco guessed that finally, after all that time, he had been ready to call it a night.

Crabbe then sank low into his bed, riffling through his sheets so that he had himself positioned in a comfortable manner underneath them. He did not move a muscle, but instead waited for the tension to soften and the breaths of his former best mate to fall steadily. Peering out slightly, Draco watched Crabbe's figure readjust. In the darkness he could see the flicker of sparkling liquid- champagne that Crabbe had brought up to the room as a form of what Draco could only guess to be further celebration. The clang of the delicate glass echoed throughout the bedroom and Crabbe set it back down, careless as he put it nearest him on the nightstand next to his comforter.

And heaving, Draco watched Crabbe watch him. In the dark, his bulky figure sat outlined, the thickness of his large head tilted in a way that scrutinized Draco completely. He did not speak, and Malfoy relished in the blackness that he could not see him well enough to call him on his bluff. Yet the furious look in Crabbe's eyes was evident. The circles of the boy's dark irises burned furiously into Draco's back, silently signifying that he had done exactly what he, Draco, had insisted he do with Hermione Jean Granger. It was a look of sure victory, one that would have perhaps been gloated about had it been daylight. Though still, the barrier of the darkness only seemed to be doing Draco a favor.

But Malfoy could hear the distinct breaths that Crabbe made in his observation. Fists wound up at his upturned thighs, he regarded Draco with full hostility before he finally turned away from it, his large torso twisting so that he rest facing the wall behind him. His plane-like back sunk steadily- plagued with the oncoming notion of drunken sleep, even Crabbe did not seem to stand much of a chance in withstanding his consciousness. Yet Draco could only watch, the shakes of his own body almost so overwhelming that he feared he might give himself away. And, there in his torment, he waited for the hint that Crabbe had finally fallen asleep as well.

He waited for what felt like hours, watched the reflection of the sparkling wine and the way that it danced against the walls in a way that made it sparkle back out to him. He felt small, stuck in beneath the covers of his bed as he told himself that he, too, needed sleep. However, something only seemed to be preventing him from doing so. He could not keep his eyes shut, could not soothe the unearthly tremors that had overtaken him ever since he had seen Crabbe disappear into the Cellar earlier in the night. Unconvinced, Draco told himself that it was not guilt, was not anything really, besides drunken foolishness. Had he been in the right state of mind he, Draco, would not have been up worrying about the condition of Hermione Granger and whether or not she had been left alive. Had he been sober, he told himself, he would have fallen fast asleep, just like the rest of them.

Though whatever it was that had been keeping him up had definitely not been agreeing with him. He still felt the same ill feeling, still felt groggy despite how many times he attempted to calm himself. It was impossible, much to his horror, too difficult to even remain still. And all the while he watched the figure of Crabbe, his own heart in an absolute uproar. He couldn't move, couldn't bring himself to it. He felt weak, as if ready to crumble, felt trapped, as if held down by something invisible. The walls were almost physically looming inwards towards him. The wind outside seemed to almost laugh at him giddily. He couldn't stay, he had to get out.

It was, of course, the persistent figure of Crabbe that had held him there. Despite the jitters and the sweating. His fingers clamped to the sheets of his bed and he breathed in and out unsteadily. He waited for the intake of breaths to come from Crabbe's end of the bedroom signifying that he had fallen asleep. He waited for snores, for sleep-induced talking, for something other than silence. It was far too risky, far too dangerous. However, when he finally did hear the sounds that he was looking for, Draco did not waste any time. Getting himself out from the bedroom had become a vitality. Thus, slowly, he slipped from the contents of his mattress and held his breathing hostage as he made his way slowly across the room, one hand clamped tightly over his mouth. And, hazy, he pulled open the door of his bedroom, wincing at the creak, before shutting it delicately after himself.

For a moment he stood outside the bedroom, his back pressed up against the wall in order to better collect himself. His ankle throbbed and, all things considered, he couldn't help the fog of intoxication that had perhaps clouded his better judgement. Yet, his further movements came in a slow manner, and he used the wall to support his rocky posture as he limped down the hallway to the set of lengthy steps that led to the living room of his parent's massive Manor. His trembling grip held tight to the railing, steadying himself as he lowered his weak leg onto the very first stair. Yet he managed to keep up a pace, no matter how slow, until he found that he had miraculously made his way down them. And there was the living room, ruined from the argument he and Crabbe had participated in only hours ago. In the darkness, the silver tray that Draco had tossed sparkled back at him, snacks strewn everywhere across the marble flooring. The book, Goyle's choice of weapon, had been left open, torn by the pages that sat half-lasting at the spine of the thing. It looked demolished, the remaining aspects of a celebration gone wrong. Draco couldn't help but think that, had the Death Eaters been around, such a thing would never have happened. Perhaps he, Goyle, and Crabbe were really not ready to handle any of this on their own.

Cursing to himself, Draco took it back. He was wrong, he reminded his weaker thoughts; he was a Malfoy and he could, of course, handle such a thing. It didn't matter that Crabbe had lost his collectiveness and Draco had lost his temper. Things were fine, and they would, eventually, work themselves out. However, he could not deny the way his hands shook as he stood surveying the scene, and the way his breaths felt icy in the depths of his aching chest. He spotted it then and there, too; the small Cellar Door, the one that Crabbe had only just passed through. It the night it stood there taunting him, teasing him just by its mere presence. And he couldn't explain it, but his feet, though sore, begun to gravitate towards it. In spite of everything, he found that he was reaching towards the door.

Within moments he was standing in the doorframe, the heavy door open so that only a fraction of light showed to him the staircase and the bars that blocked the rest of the Cellar below. Nonetheless, the swoosh sound of wind behind him picked up and, hexed, the door slammed shut without much of a warning to Draco at all. The blond jumped, stumbling forward to turn in horror and realize that he had forgotten his wand. And the fact did nothing to calm his nerves, only made him more and more anxious as he stood on the top step with the thud of his heart racing in his chest. It was a rising fear that plagued him, yet he was careful not to cry out- from below the broken breaths of Hermione Granger bounced off the walls and hit him there at the top of the staircase.

Thus, he could not help but wonder why it was that he found himself so curious about her. She'd been kept down in the stoney Cellar for hours with Crabbe, and Malfoy couldn't really help himself. He had to know, had to soothe the curiosity that just would not leave him be. So, stumbling, he descended down the steps, convinced she'd been sleeping, only to find that he had perhaps been correct. There, in the corner of the Cellar, rest Hermione Jean Granger, her long brunette hair circling around her skull in a manner that almost reminded him of a halo. Her eyes were lightly shut and, covering her visible front, the girl was dressed in a twinkling amount of red blood.

The rush of something heavy in his head made Malfoy sway. Uneasy, he pressed his back up against the stone wall, ran his hands up into his hair and covered his mouth with his hands. The most he could do, however, was scrutinize anything but Hermione. He didn't want to look- didn't wish to know anything about what Crabbe had done any longer. It wasn't guilt, he told him over and over, but the mere principle. The idea of Hermione alone in the Cellar disgusted him only because he had seen first hand what the place had done to even the strongest of people. He didn't feel bad, he only felt...

"Mmmm?" Draco Malfoy whirled around, the sound that echoed in the room cutting off his thoughts. And if he had been panicking before, the new feeling he felt had seemed to be something worse. Horrified, he watched the figure of Hermione Granger twitch, her fingers curl lightly into loose fists at her side. He hated himself then, for his curiosity and for his stupidity- wandless and locked within the Cellar as well, he wasn't exactly sure how much of a chance he had with Hermione at all.

However, the girl did not move. Rather, she seemed to have only adjusted herself in her sleep, turning only slightly in her spot on the floor below his feet. And Malfoy narrowed his eyes, moved forward only to get a better look. Despite the pathetic stagger that Crabbe had so graciously given him, Draco found his way close, and even bent low enough to analyze the condition of the Death Eaters prisoner- he would be killing her soon, but the thought was one he did not wish to consider. Instead, he considered only the vision of her lying there, of her body rising and falling with the safety of sleep. He extended a hand forward, only, of course, to check quickly on the condition of her face hidden behind the bushy barrier of her side swept hair.

There came a gasp, though Draco froze in the middle of his scrutiny. Hermione Granger's eyes opened, though he definitely had not expected it. Up at him she looked, her face shocked and twisted. Draco, however, didn't even see her sudden movement coming. Within an instant, Hermione leaned forward, and Draco was certain that even he could hear her heart pounding from his distance near her. He, however, did not get any sort of chance to cry out. Hermione rushed towards him so fast that she was just a motion of blurry color. And then he felt something hard slam against his face, though he couldn't see what it was that had hit him. It was, however, far too late for any form of salvation anyway. The moment Hermione had hit him, Draco felt a sense on inexplicable dizziness that made his head rush and his stomach swim.

And then he was out before he even hit the floor.

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**Vonne: **I will be working on the next chapter as soon as possible! I'm trying to devote my time to this story and 'The Spotless Mind' at the same time so please bear with me! Don't hesitate to leave me a review! All are always appreciated!


	5. Paper Ships

**Vonne:** I just finished laying out the entire direction of this story and I'm so stoked for the way that it is going to turn out. I'll have to warn you now, though, that 'Cellar Door' is going to get violent, though I'm pretty sure I've rated this 'M', still just making this clear beforehand. Thank you for all the reviews I've collected on this so far. My plan is to continue with a couple more chapters of 'Cellar Door' then return back to 'Spotless Mind' and go back and forth. It might come to the point where I focus on one of them for the time being, however. The next chapter is the beginning of the plot in concern with Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and the Death Eaters. I can't wait to really get going!

**Psychic City: **Of course! Thank you, again. And don't worry about not updating that much, I'm only joking with you when I consistently bring it up over the course of our conversations. Kind of.

**MCLanna: **I hope you like this chapter as much as you liked the other ones! And, of course I don't mind if you draw a picture based on this fanfiction, I'd actually be very flattered. Don't forget to send me the link when you've finished with it! I'd love to see it!

**Ali-Lou: **Thank you so much! I am so happy that you feel that this is believable in respect to the books. I've always tried to make things as realistic as possible, and the way that the characters converse is definitely an aspect of it. Thank you for such a compliment, it means so much to me! I hope you like this chapter just as much, and you're right- I've got so much planned!

**Pearlrose33: **I needed Hermione to hit him, even if at least once. HAH, poor Draco deserves it every time.

**Corey Fitzwilliam: **I'm so glad you liked the last chapter, and I hope you like where it leaves off, as well! Don't be sorry about a short review! I'm glad you did, anyways!

**Isabella120: **Don't worry about it, everyone gets busy. I'm just glad that you found time to review the previous chapter- its always nice hearing from you! I'm so happy that you're enjoying this story, anyways. I've got so much planned for it and I'm super excited for it to really take off. Don't worry about not having time to review if you're unable to, though; its totally understandable!

**TabyReynolds: **Thank you very much! I'm so glad that you enjoyed this chapter as much as you have the others. This upcoming chapter is definitely not as long, but the next one is going to be, so hopefully it will make up for it. Anyway, thank you for the reviews! I appreciate it so much!

**LivelyMcBrighten: **Thank you! Sorry for the delay in updating. I hope you like this chapter!

**TragicSlytherin: **Ah, thank you very much! I hope you like this chapter, despite the shorter length of it. I'm going to make the next chapter longer by combining the sixth and seventh chapters into one. Your review was brilliant, by the way. Let's hope Draco never tries to Apparate under the influence.

**Le Candeh: **Thank you! I'm so happy you liked them!

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_"I said on a ship made of paper, and I sunk in the deep of your eyes. I got lost in your graveyard, now I dream on a bed of knives."_

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**Chapter Three**  
**Paper Ships**

Hermione Granger was bent double, her chest bobbing up and down, with her hands clawing at her knee caps. In the darkness she peered down, her head tilted to one side so that the bushy brunette and curly locks fell lifelessly across her bloody forehead. She squinted, staring at the figure she had taken out with curiousity before pushing the shaggy blond hair from the front of his pale face.

Draco Malfoy was unmoving, breathing slow with the torment of sleep. Hermione reeled back; she'd done it, she'd knocked him out. The redness she had caused to appear on hid visage formed- the surface of his nose was pooling over with an ample amount of blood and the upper part of his lip was split open reactively. She smelled liquor, and an overwhleming stench of it, at that. Yet she had been surprised to find that he was in nothing but a blue flannel pyjama top and gray sweatpants, unarmed without any sign of his wand present anywhere. She could not, however, only assume; to be better safe than sorry, Hermione lunged forward, turning Malfoy over on to his back with more strength than what was perhaps necessary. He was slim, too much so, even, and he collided to the ground with a harsh thud that onky made Hermione's smile double.

Then her hands searched his pants and she lifted up the front of his shirt to check if he had tucked it away in the waistband of his sweats; he hadn't. For a moment she stalled, undecided as to what her next move would be. She knew well enough that the Cellar door had locked behind him, but Malfoy's presence with her only made her more inquisitive. Certainly he had forgotten his wand, because someone like Draco Malfoy would not pay her a visit without it...

She could kill him, knew she could even. Without a wand, it still wouldn't be hard. All she had to do was smother him. She could place her hands on his mouth and hold him there while he slept. He wouldn't even make a sound, wouldn't even scream. It would be easy, convient, and, in the end, she would have one less Death Eater on her back. Yet Hermione could not bring herself to do it- her hands shook over the mouth of the blond, wanting so badly to end his life, despite the guilt pressuring her to spare him. So, furious with herself, she stumbled backwards, pushing the unconscious Malfoy away from her before scuttling back into the wall with a feeling of nausea that lingered in her chest.

She didn't look at him, instead stared only at her feet as she pressed her back into the stone wall of the Cellar. She wasn't sure how long she'd been there at the Manor's underground, but she'd guessed it had been sometime around a week. And she worried most about Harry and Ron, how they'd been looking for her and how close they'd come in finding her. Despite her better judgement, she wished them to have taken the wrong lead- she was smart enough to know that her capture was exactly what the Death Eaters had planned. Harry Potterand Ron Weasley were supposed to fall for the trap. Breathing slow, Hermione prayed it didn't happen.

She was a strong girl, as much so as she was bright. She did not want Harry and Ron to experience the same torment she was being put through, especially if it would only please the other Death Eaters. She, Hermione Jean Granger, could handle it and she could make it out alive. Still, the pains of the afternoon had seemed to catch up with her. It had been Vincent Crabbe this time, but Hermione could not truly remember how long it had been that he'd spent with her.

What she did remember was the hissing way he'd shouted, "crucio!" Just before it had hit her. She remembered the way his intoxicated face watched her on the floor, recalled the exact way he'd lifted up his beefy foot and slammed it wildly into her gut. It had been a while since then, she'd assumed, though she had only just woken up on the ground. In reality, she hadn't meant to punch Draco Malfoy's lights out, though she was definitely not complaining. Lunging forward had come impulsively and rendering Malfoy unconscious had come only as a bonus. As she scanned the figure of his limp body, Hermione chewed reactively on her lower lip. She couldn't kill him, and so she watched with a sense of stubbornness that made her hate him even more.

What had he come to see her without the protection of a wand for, anyways? Surely, he had not been that thick. Hermione considered the possibility that he had only come to further torture her, regardless of his wandless stature. This was Draco Malfoy she was talking about and, no matter how vulnerable, he was still one of them... he was still a Death Eater. Sighing, Hermione clung to her knees as she held them close to her very own chest. She surveyed the form of Malfoy and then way he had fallen on the floor before her. In his crumbled heap, Malfoy looked almost unreal, doll-like in the way that his body twisted without the inclination of life. He breathed slow, raspy, and his blond hair had fallen over half of his face as if to continuously keep himself hidden. The way he had landed on top of his shoulder was what really got to her. His arm almost appeared boneless, wrapped curiously around his lower torso in a manner that made even Hermione, who had spent an entire night with Vincent Crabbe, flinch back.

"Mmm?" Hermione had not expected Draco to have moaned so silently. She heard him, however, in the absence of company. Perplexed and caught off guard, she watched his face as he slept, furrowing timidly through the haze of ignorance. Sighing, his eyebrows knotted together and he turned over, curling up sheepishly before groaning pitifully again. His head lulled down and his cheek rest so pressed up against the stone ground that a trail of eye-catching clear spit leaked from the corner of his downturned mouth.

He inhaled drastically, so much so that his chest rose high with the intake of harsh breath. Letting it out came shakily, uneven, and brisk, however he wound himself back up against the floor before tilting his blond head back down into the surface of his sternum. She watched him huff, uneasy in the way that his bruised eyelids squeezed shut with each gust of air he took in. Her deep brown eyes scanned his thin, white body, beginning at the black and blue collar bone that sat just visible near his neck. She wondered how he'd gotten the thing before deciding that he had probably deserved it as she made her way down the rest of his torso.

The pale skin covering his body looked chilled, purple almost despite the blotches of significant red that surrounded the places that she'd guessed him sore. She noticed the spot of his ankle, from where the end of his gray sweat pants ended, that the entire bulk of his legs circumference was swollen- and sickeningly so, as well. For a quick moment, she wondered how he had managed to continue along while walking on it. Yet her hand gave a slight jolt, ready to inspect the injury when she knew she would have her only chance. Lightly, her fingers grazed the largest part of his ankle, lifting the end of his pants up and away from his skin as she chewed hastily on her bottom lip. Then, his face gave a minute twitch. Freezing, Hermione saw the way in which his slender hand crept up and his long, delicate fingers ran quivering through his hair.

Hermione drew her hand back, scuttling against the floor and colliding with a thud back into the wall. However, she remained still as she watched him recollect himself. Still, she saw Draco wince and he pulled his hand down the front of his face from where it rested at the crown on his skull. Large and sprawled outward, his hand covered the only half of his visage that she could see. Nonetheless, when his gray eyes pulled themselves open, Hermione knew she was not mistaken. Yet she could not move; terrified, she remained holding her own breath. Though Malfoy's focus seemed hazy, unclear as his pupils wandered around the room without any real direction. He first saw the ceiling, then the walls, then the floor and for a second Hermione was sure that he had not even registered where it was that he had even woken up at. Though finally his eyes did find her; caught as if in a set of dangerously bright headlights, Malfoy jolted. He remained staring at her for only a moment before he too fumbled back, his arms working at the ground to pull himself to his feet. However, Draco lost his footing, no doubt due to his useless ankle, and only managed to fall backwards, collapsing back onto this backside nearest the corner of the stoney Cellar.

Draco's chest rose and fell underneath the flannel of his pyjama shirt. He watched her wearily, his expression twisted into a face of absolute terror. And Hermione could see that his entire body was shaking almost uncontrollably. Nonetheless, when he spoke his terror was audible. Quivering, Draco tried to sound daunting when he cried, "what have you done to me?"

"Nothing!" Hermione shrieked, terrified. She pulled herself lower into the wall, bent down deeper so that she did not even have the chance to even look at him the wrong way. However, inwardly she thought him insane. There he was accusing her of harming him when she was the one who had been put through the real torture. She did not, of course, voice her logic out loud- fear tainted her instinct and better judgement remained to keep her head straight. Thus, she inched back, her heart pounding when she she said, "I haven't touched you, I swear!"

Malfoy's face reddened and Hermione was not sure whether it was due to fury, embarrassment, or pain. Still, she watched him writhe, shaking in the way that he lifted his own hands in attempts to pull himself back up off the floor again. He winced as he did so, ignoring her cowering in front of him. Then he gazed back down at his ankle only to cry out when he noticed the loose hold his arm seemed to have with his shoulder. With his good hand, Draco touched the space nearest his collar bone. He reeled backwards when the sharp pain reacted to his touch, feeling faint and dizzy all at once. And Hermione say him sway, holding back the urge to vomit as an entirely new bout of tremors took him back over. Yet he only seemed to refuse to accept the fact that he had been rendered useless. Thus, he took the plunge, struggling to readjust his damaged limb by reaching out to the wall and supporting his havering torso against it. As predicted, however, he only gave a slight stumble. Unsuccessful, Draco's body slammed back into the stone and he almost lost his footing for the third time in the night.

Hermione bit her tongue, watching as he seemed almost unaware of her presence, dumbfounded to have found himself stuck in the position he had woken up to. It seemed to have not truly registered with him. In every way he appeared to fight it, as if a nightmare that he had just not yet escaped from. Grueling, Draco's shivering demeanor only made him more curious to her. As it seemed, he had not seemed prepared for such a thing at all. And, shocked, his hysteria confirmed to Hermione that he had not even begun to process it.

She leaned forward only slightly, lifting her eyes to his in attempts to sound sympathetic. "It's broken," she told him, hoping that she could come off as caring and careful. "I'm sure of it... y-you hit the g-ground and..."

"This can't happen!" Draco responded, talking more to himself than to Hermione at all. He stared down at his lifeless arm, watched in horror as it only just dangled there. "T-This can't h-happen... you h-have no _idea_ what will happen w-when-"

Hermione's eyes flickered up to the top of the steps that led to the entrance of the Cellar. Draco was talking too loud. One more outburst and Hermione was certain that someone new would join him in the Cellar. Fear gripped her instantly and she knew she had to keep him calm, silent. Thus, she inched forward, her eyes brimming over with terrified tears as she slid her body across the floor. "Shh, Draco, please!" she whispered, her voice breaking in the process. "Please, just... I c-can help you if you j-just stay quiet!"

Draco swung back, as if he had just noticed her advancing towards him in the first place. His face contorted and Hermione saw that he had only looked angry. Instead he strode forward, his broken arm hanging at his side. And Hermione noticed the look of intensity in his gaze, though something about his stature made her think that he mean to try and hit her. "Stay away from me you filthy little-" Caught off guard by the pain in his ankle, Draco's body gave way and he fumbled back towards the ground, his feet turning inwards in a manner that made his head strike the floor with a whole-hearted slap.

Hermione waited. Momentarily, her eyes scanned the vision of Draco, his head crushed against the stone in a way that almost looked painful even to her. His expression, however, was one riddled with self-loathing and discomfort. He seemed to have forgotten about Hermione again and she noticed it in the way that his eyes fogged over completely. But in reality, Malfoy only felt trapped, useless without the comfort of a wand or any sort of plan. He had not, of course, planned on getting himself stuck in the Cellar with Hermione, but the list of excuses he tried to come up with in order to explain it later to Crabbe was short and almost utterly pointless. He could never explain the broken arm, or the way that his face would be newly cut into.

His expression held him dizzily, and his eyes rolled back into his pale skull as if he were once again about to fall into unconsciousness. However, Hermione only noted the twisted complexion of his arm, felt obligated, even, to get a better look at it. Mulling the situation over, she scooted herself forward against the stone, chewing mercilessly on her lower lip. It was an instinctual reaction, moving towards him; had she been thinking correctly, she would have stared at him as she watched him pass out. However, there was something about his defeated expression that made her intrigued, as if fixing his broken arm might somehow help the situation in general. Thus, Hermione extended her delicate hand, her own face falling when she said, "here..."

Malfoy flinched, but appeared almost too injured to move. Instead, he watched her with a questionable glance, his face contorting as she picked up his arm and lifted it slightly. She saw him wince and continued on delicately as he hissed while she lifted it. Then, carefully, she moved up the sleeve of his shirt, staring down at the bruised flesh beneath it. It did not look like she had done it. In fact, despite the crooked position of his shoulder, most of the bruising on his arm appeared preconceived. She hovered above him for a second, looking into his face only to see that he had pressed his eyes forcefully shut. Still. she let her fingers trace down the surface of his skin, watching curiously as he resisted struggling against her.

"Where did you get these from?" Hermione asked finally, when Draco's breathing grew louder. She stared down at the intense marks on his forearm, peering in closer in the light to garner for herself a more sufficient look.

Draco's eyes remained snapped shut. "None of your business, Granger," he spat, but he looked as if he were about to throw up.

"Did they do this to you?" she whispered, ignoring him. Gently, she ran her fingers over the swollen marks of the boy's white limb. For a moment she felt sorry, sympathetic for the boy who appeared to have suffered in the same way that she was suffering. And the injuries made it quite obvious, almost unbearably so. The green look in Draco Malfoy's face told her almost everything that she'd needed to know.

"I said it's none of your bloody business!" Draco hissed, and Hermione reeled back dropping his arm upon the ground with a force that was almost cruel.

"Fine!" she spat, taking advantage of the vulnerable state that Draco Malfoy had found himself in. "Suffer then!" Locks of Hermione's brown hair fell graciously over her face, blending in with the eads of sweat that tainted it. Draco wondered momentarily how she had managed to even wake up after spending the hours she had with Crabbe but, then again, he had never really doubted her strength. Nonetheless, he felt a bit humiliated about his condition, too weak to stand and too drunk to properly fight back. It seemed as if Hermione could take the abuse more than he ever could and, knowing that, Draco could not help but feel a bit defeated. Hermione, however, mumbled additionally, "Lord knows you deserve it more than I do!"

Deserve? Draco wasn't exactly sure he had heard her right. What did she possibly know about anything that went on in the Malfoy Manor? What could she have even thought to understand about his life there and how he went about his days? As smart as she was, Draco could not help but think her ignorant, stupid even. She was biased, unaware, and her utter unkindness almost set him briskly over the edge. What did she know, anyway? How could she even begin to fathom?

"What did you even come down here for, anyways?" she challenged, observing his struggle. "Huh? Because if you've come to do what the others do you're doing a pretty awful job at it!" With that, she kicked a flick of mounted dust at him, spinning away from the spot angrily and turning back to the corner of the Cellar itself.

Draco swallowed so loud that Hermione could hear it from where she stood. Nonetheless, he struggled to pull himself up again; using his uninjured single arm and leg, he wobbled to a proper stance and cradled his wonky shoulder. Huffing, he leaned himself back against the stone, glancing up at the ceiling in hopes of hearing footsteps that were preferably not Crabbe's. In his head he wished Goyle, of all people, would be the one to find him down here- no questions asked. That way, he knew, things would be a whole lot easier for the lot of them.

But Hermione was adamant. She did not take Draco ignoring her lightly and the fire burning behind her eyes was intensified. "If you're going to do it, then do it!" she snapped, pushing her hair from her eyes. "Do it just like they want you to, Malfoy, because frankly I don't have all fucking day to sit here and wait around for it!"

Malfoy's head spun. "Stop talking, Granger," he commanded, and he grabbed his temples, rubbing them carefully as if squeezing the migraine from his head.

"Excuse me?" Hermione's face contorted so much so that she looked as if she were about to lunge at him all over again.

"I said, 'stop bloody talking'!" Draco's head snapped up and his own blond locks fell across his face. But Hermione did not take his threat lightly. Instead, she only stared back at him, her pale face reddening so drastically that Malfoy could barely make anything else out of her suppressed facial features. He saw her fingers curl, and watched as her chest dropped in bitter resentment. And he remembered how much they had actually hated one another then... or at least, how much they were supposed to.

And admittedly, he could understand everything he knew she felt for him right then and there. She wanted him dead as much as he needed her dead. After all the time he had tormented her in school, after her capture... it was almost predictable. But what Hermione Granger did not understand- could not understand- was that now Draco Malfoy's resentment for her was only half-assed. More than she knew, he did not want her to die, did not want to have to kill her. He didn't loathe her for her side or her righteousness. Only, he wanted everything to be over, wanted the War to be over, wanted this to be over. He wanted to move so far away from the Wizarding World, either way. He wanted to live and be spared life in Azkaban, if his side were the side to loose. And if they won... he hadn't even thought that far ahead yet. The mere suggestion of his riddled him to the very core.

Yet Hermione was not considering anything that Draco Malfoy had been at that moment. Instead, she was thinking only how much she did currently resent him, every single thing about him. Surely he had come down to the Cellar to further make her life a living Hell. His prolonging of it was only making it worse, only fueling her anger further. And she decided that she did not care what would happen to her should she lunge forward and strike him. He deserved it this time, deserved every bit of it because she certainly didn't.

Lost in his thoughts, Draco did not even see her coming. Still, Hermione bolted forward, and Draco looked up only in time to see her scuffle across the stone floor. However, the girl only made it several inches. The moment she had strode forward, the expression on her face had shifted. She went from hostile to pained, the look of sheer agony on her pretty face. Then she crumbled downward, having lost her own footing. With a grunt, Hermione hit the ground before Draco's feet, and Malfoy noticed one thing he hadn't seen about the girl before; beneath the thin fabric of her clothing, Hermione Jean Granger was profusely bleeding. Red liquid soaked through her shirt and her jacket, pooled around her stomach so that it touched the very waistband of her trousers. And, breathing, she let out a single sob, curled up against the floor in a ball os tight that she looked to be cutting off her own circulation.

But Draco only stood, panting as he watched her writhe, her hands clinging to her abdomen so tightly that her knuckles had begun to turn a shade of translucent white. How he had noticed it before was beyond him- the wound left there was almost completely outstanding. And he felt ill just looking at it, even in the simple act of staring down at the gaping slash wide-eyed without moving a muscle. He couldn't help the shakes that overtook his body, feeling numb as Hermione's consistent sobs rattled the room around him. Her voice broke and she only twisted her torso within herself, her hair a vibrant brown mess around her throbbing skull.

There was no doubt in his mind that Crabbe had done it. By the looks of the blood, the wound seemed fresh and extraordinary. Draco did not think of how she had possibly possessed the strength she had before when speaking to him. Instead he only considered the injury, and how it could get infected, how she had not been healed, and how she would need it soon. Still, he remained uneasy on his weak ankle, having dropped his shoulder completely only to remain uselessly observing her.

She breathed in, her eyes pressed so tightly shut that the wrinkles on her forehead made her look almost dead in the lack of light. He wasn't sure how long he had been staring at her, but he was certain that moving was not exactly an option. It was as if he knew that he couldn't, stuck in what felt like almost a numb trance as he took in the likes of her bloody torso. And then came a sound, though far away from him, he almost jumped out of his skin when he saw the shadow of someone bulky at the top of the staircase.

"Draco?"

Malfoy gasped, lurching away from Hermione as if she had made one last attempt to grab at him. Then, heaving, he spun around, sweating in the direction of the newfound figure that had come to his rescue. There, at the top of the steps, stood Gregory Goyle. He wore nothing but his pyjamas, looking exhausted and hungover all at the same time. But he was alone, much to Malfoy's appreciation; after surveying the scene, Draco could tell that there was no sign of Crabbe in sight. Crabbe, however, held his wand dumbly at his front, as if he had not noticed Hermione's weakness, and his gaze snapped back and forth from Draco to Hermione and then back again.

Still, Goyle only stared, watching Draco sputter back, his breathing harsh and laced with tremors. Then the blond scuttled away, leaving Hermione on the floor with her sobs and her crying and her tears. Though he clamored up the stairs without looking back, his bare feet scraping against the stone as he tried not to limp back up to Goyle. And when he finally reached the top of the stairs, he swung the bars closed at the front of the Cellar and pulled himself so quickly from the room that he almost saw stars. They sent the door flying shut, and the slam made the house almost shake with the sheer force of it all.

And the minute amount of light shining down on Hermione Granger instantly went out.

From the top of the staircase, on the other side, Gregory Goyle shot Draco Malfoy a gaze laced with concern and confusion. His face looked pale, spooked, and he bobbed up and down with every exhale. "I woke up and you weren't in your bed," Goyle panted, watching Malfoy watch the shut door in hysterical silence. "I thought..." Goyle continued, his figure moving rapidly as he sucked in his air. "I thought you'd left and then I'd heard yelling from the Cellar." Goyle's eyes widened. He looked like a small child, having only just awoken from a nightmare.

"Yelling..." Draco begun, trailing off in his haziness. "You heard us yelling?" Goyle nodded fiercely and Draco's heart skipped a beat. "Where's Crabbe?"

"Upstairs," Goyle responded quickly, "sleeping."

"Did he hear you leave the bedroom?" Malfoy asked, looking both faint and ill all at the same time. His eyes searched Goyle's face frantically

Goyle gulped, shaking his head uneasily. "N-No, h-he... I don't think he..."

"Where is he now?"

"He didn't leave!" Goyle counteracted, recognizing the terror on Draco's face. "He didn't move when I left!" Slumping downward, Malfoy pressed his back against the Cellar door and breathed out, running his good hand across the front of his face. He pressed his eyes shut, and tried his best not to look pained. However, when Goyle only stood in front of him curiously, Draco took the time to readjust himself and stagger back up into a more proper stance. Goyle, however, only watched and waited. "What did you do to her?" he asked, looking uneasy.

Blinking, Draco only looked back at him. "Mmm?" he mumbled, his dreary eyes looking dark with lack of sleep.

"To Granger," sniffed Goyle, still holding his gaze. He shifted his weight, pulling something long and slender from behind his back. Stepping to the side into the light of the window, Goyle presented Draco's wand back to him, allowing it to linger before the space in front of the two of them as he spoke again. "You didn't bring your wand." Malfoy didn't say a word; rather, he reached for his wand with his hand, passed it to his injured one, and held it tightly at his slender side. He held his tongue, and Goyle, almost knowingly, didn't say a word. "What's the plan now?" he asked instead, speaking only of the night and the night alone.

Malfoy's hand fumbled back up to his face where he ran his hand numbly through his hair. "I dunno, Goyle," he muttered, "go to bed?"

Gregory Goyle couldn't help but look defeated. Still, he nodded, sighing before turning around and continuing to make his way back down the hallway towards the stairs. Draco, on the other hand, only remained put. His back still against the door, he stood weakly staring at his toes before he finally heard Goyle stop walking. Wobbling, Goyle stood uneasily before titling his head back around and looking Draco Malfoy up and down nervously. "Aren't you coming?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

From his spot against the door, Draco Malfoy could not deny how comfortable the living room couch looked to him at that moment. He wasn't certain he could sleep in the room next to Vincent Crabbe, wasn't even sure sleep would ever come to him that way. "I think I'm going to sleep down here tonight," Malfoy muttered, his pupils glazed over anxiously.

"Why?" Goyle's shoulder dropped.

"Crabbe snores," Draco lied, shrugging his shoulders. "And I can... keep watch this way." Goyle's blank facial expression made Draco feel uncomfortable. "You know," he said, trying to ignore the piercing pins that struck his shoulder, "just incase the Death Eaters come back."

"By yourself?" Goyle watched Draco watch the cushions of the long living room couch longingly.

Draco blinked, looking back up at Goyle curiously. He saw the sad look in the boy's eyes, felt a tinge of guilt for having suggested he sleep upstairs with Crabbe all by himself. "Well, yeah..." he said carefully, "I think, until we get this whole thing... figured out-"

"Yeah, no, I get it-"

"- I mean, at least until we have everything put together-"

"No, yeah, I guess that makes sense." The two stood awkwardly opposite one another, shifting their weight uneasily. And when Goyle finally nodded simply, he shrugged his shoulders up as if waiting for Malfoy to make his move. However, Draco's mind only raced- he could not let Goyle see him limp, could not let him see the way in which he curled his broken arm inward in a strange way that only made him look crooked and crippled. Thus, he remained perched upwards, his eyes cast down still at his bare feet until he finally heard Goyle clear his murky throat.

"Goodnight, Goyle," Draco mumbled, hinting graciously about how he would rather be left alone.

"... Night, then." With one last glance towards the Cellar door, Goyle lumbered back up towards the staircase. His wobble made him lumbering and boulder-like.

However, he finally disappeared into the darkness, leaving Draco to the night and the couch alone. Then, once he heard the light click of the upstairs door shut, Draco pulled himself away from the door. Limping, he slumped towards the couch, and he held his broken arm as he made his way slowly towards it. Crumbling onto the surface of it, he collapsed into the cushions, his eyes squinting out into the black shadows that crept in, looming all around him.

He thought of ships and the metaphor of how his was going down. He was loosing his touch, loosing every aspect he had ever really known about himself. The old Draco, whomever he was, would not have let Vincent Crabbe walk all over him, nor would he have let someone like Hermione Jean Granger knock the living daylights out of his and get away with it. As he stared up at the ceiling, Draco could not help but feel a sense of distain in his anxiety ridden chest. He was certain, that if everyone did possess their own hypothetical ship, his was made out of paper, a material that was certainly no match for the large ocean that he now found himself it.

He did not even recognize himself, at least not mentally. Crabbe had once complained that he had gone soft, fuzzy with the numbness that had taken over him, but Malfoy wasn't sure. Perhaps, he thought, 'soft' wasn't actually the right word for it. Perhaps he had just not been his father. Perhaps he had just not been a Death Eater. Wincing, Draco tried to writhe the thought from his head. He was supposed to kill Hermione, was supposed to end her life and he knew that the time was soon coming. Whether or not he truly believed that he was going 'soft' was no longer an issue. The Death Eaters wouldn't care, Voldemort would not show him any mercy.

It hadn't mattered now, any of it. But, in reality, Draco didn't really know what did anymore.

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**Vonne: **I've got so much of this planned, I'm so stoked to get this fanfiction up and continuing. Thank you for all your support! I appreciate it so much!


	6. Pa Pa Power

**Vonne:** I'm not sure if any of you have heard of the band 'Dead Man's Bones', but they are a big inspiration for the story. They definitely have a really great sound, and everything is on the spooky, dark side, so that was where this fanfiction came into play in the first place. Everything just kind of fits in that sense. Anyway, I've named all the chapters of 'Cellar Door' after their songs, and the quotes at the top of the chapters are bits of pieces of the lyrics. So far, I've tried to pick the song titles that are the most fitting to the chapter, for example 'Werewolf Heart' involved a lot of Fenrir, and 'The Room Where You Sleep' was the first introduction of Hermione's Cellar. There's no point in explaining all of this, but I thought it was some fun trivia in the long run. If you do decide to check out the music, "Pa Pa Power" is one of my favorite ones.

**TragicSlytherin: **You are so close in all your predictions its unreal. I'm almost dying to tell you what I have planned, but I'm stoked to get these chapters up and going. Nonetheless, I really loved reading your review because I've already planned the entire length of this story until the end and I can't wait for you to see what's coming. Keep guessing, you're on a really close track- especially with that 'live bait' comment, though it may be a bit different than you think. And you're definitely correct on Draco and his need to heal Hermione... she'd better not die of natural causes. His arm, too... wonder how long he'll get away with that one...

**Star Cullen:** Hopefully this chapter will offer some hope for Hermione yet. Draco, on the other hand, might just dig himself into a bit of a deeper hole... thanks for your review! I'm glad you're enjoying this story so far. It's keeping me motivated to write more!

**Isabella120: **I'm glad you liked it! There's a bunch more conversation between the two of them coming, in this chapter as well as the next chapter.

**GurlyGalaxoxo: **Thank you! I'm glad you liked it! I hope you like this chapter just as much as you have the previous ones! Don't hesitate to let me know what you think!

**Pearlrose33:** Thank you so much! I'm so glad that you liked the last chapter. I'm sorry that it wasn't as long as I'd planned, but I made this chapter around 6,000 words, so its a tad bit longer, as well. I hope you like this chapter, and I am so excited to get this started. Hermione's not doing so well, you're definitely right. But don't loose hope in dear Draco just yet. He's a soft one, no matter how much he tries to ignore it.

**TabbyReynolds: **Thanks! I'm glad you liked the lines in the past chapter. I think, at this point, Draco isn't really focused on how much he hates Hermione. In reality, I think he's more upset with the War and trying to dodge the Death Eaters, than he is with Hermione. However, he still is Draco Malfoy, after all. He needs to hate someone, or at least, needs to feel like he still does. Still, he'll get over it... maybe he already has. But anyways, thank you for the compliments. I'm so glad you're enjoying this!

**LECandeh: **Thank you! I tried to tie the ending into the song as much as I could. Naming the last chapter was the hardest for me so far since I wanted to keep to my 'Dead Man's Bones' trend. Most of the songs almost directly fit to the chapters I have planned ahead, for instance, "My Body's a Zombie for You" and "Lose Your Soul" will fit perfectly into the upcoming chapters. Anyway, I'm glad to know that you feel it worked!

**MCLanna: **Really? Awesome! Im' so happy that you decided to check them out, and that you liked them in the end. Any favorite songs so far?

**Psychic City: **Why, thank you. I'm glad you enjoy reading from someone who actually updates. I'm kidding! Kidding, of course...

**Lively McBrighten: **Aw, thanks! I'm glad that you felt that the chapter and the song connected at the end. I wasn't certain I had pulled it off, since I didn't really have any connection to a song with the past chapter, but I'm glad you saw differently. Thank you so much.

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_"Burn the streets, burn the cars, pa pa power, pa pa power. Please make me better. Broken glass, broken hearts, pa pa power, pa pa power."_

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**Chapter Six**  
**Pa Pa Power**

He wasn't exactly sure how it happened but, one way or another, Draco Malfoy found himself standing before the Cellar door early in the morning before wither Crabbe or Goyle had woken up, sporting a bowl of steaming hot soup in his ice-cold hands. Though he was a bit fuzzy on the details, he dismissed the idea that he had brought down the dish simply because he had worried about Hermione Granger's eating habits. Certainly, he merely had not wished her to starve to death. Sure a demise would not please the Death Eaters. He was supposed to kill her himself, not emaciate her. Thus, he considered the soup as an offering only to progress his assignment forward. He would kill her in due time... just not now, it couldn't be now. He told himself that everything had just not fallen in place yet.

Hermione Granger, however, had been sitting at the end of the Cellar, a bit perplexed when she'd seen the soup in his hands. He'd spotted her there, curled in a ball with her knees pressed to her chest as she scanned the scene of Draco lingering in the open doorway. She noticed that this time, he had not forgotten his wand. With a timid twitch, Hermione averted her eyes, though Draco only continued down the steps, avoiding hers as well. And the strangeness did not seem to fancy on passing; Draco only stood, shoulders slouched, to extend his good arm out and put the bowl in front of her lowered figure. "You need to eat something."

"Do I?" The look in Hermione's narrowed eyes showed the chill that riddled through her very core. She regarded Draco with bitterness, the blood stain on her abdomen still visible and darkened. He could tell, however, that she was in need of substance, had even heard her stomach growl from the very moment that he had decided to enter. Yet something about her expression told him that forcing her to eat would not come easily. He was, however, not too plentiful on time.

She challenged Draco with her icy glare, her thin arms cradling at her knees for emphasis. There was an overwhelming sense of scrutiny to her look, her stubborn visage almost obvious. But Draco certainly did not have time for such games. He'd checked the clock before he had left; three-thirty in the morning or not, Vincent Crabbe would be waking up soon, and if he had seen the defiance in the girl's demeanor, he would not be pleased. Thus, Malfoy only rolled his eyes; he was far too hung over to deal with something so simple. Keeping his good arm out towards her, he commanded, "eat it, Granger."

Hermione uncurled herself. "I'm not eating anything that comes from any of you, Malfoy," she spat, and her long brown hair fell cautiously over her grimy complexion.

And Draco raised his wand, happy to have brought it. "Eat it right now or I'll hex you," he threatened, and he put on a look of sheer seriousness. Whether or not he would have actually gone through it, however, was a question that would remain unanswered. She seemed to buy into his lie, and her deep eyes grew wide with fear as she sunk back submissively. Yet Draco only stared down at her, his posture slouchy as he bent forward, placed the bowl on the stone floor, and nudged it carefully towards her with his bare foot. The girl regarded the soup with uncertainty, and Malfoy dropped his wand, defeated. "It's not poisoned, for fuck's sake!" he growled, and took slight offense at the odd assumption. He'd spent a lot of time contemplating on whether or not to even bring the food down to her, and now she was only second guessing it.

He stood before her, nonetheless, his gray eyes upon her as she stared back at the thing. Then, when she appeared to have given up, she glanced back up at him and hissed, "are you just going to sit there and watch?" Malfoy glanced around, feeling sheepishly stupid; he had not meant to stand before her in silence for long. Thus his focus fell back upon her face, his own distorting with distaste as he caught the sharp frown she had put on. And, upon catching her furious stare, he grunted before spinning back around.

Stalking back towards the steps of the Cellar in his bare feet, Malfoy had made it just about half way up to the top when he was certain that he had heard it- from upstairs, someone had slammed a door. The sound riddled through the house, sending creeks through the walls of the Cellar and Malfoy could almost feel the footsteps as they came over the ceiling above him. Panic flooded through his entire being and, horrified, he stumbled back. He could not be found in the Cellar, not with Hermione and a cup of soup; and, daunted, he thought fast for a way around the chaos. He needed a way to keep whomever it was out of the Cellar... if only just for a short while.

Desperately, he turned back to the Cellar door, locking it with a quick spell so that it would signify he was busy. He heard the click as it mingled with the echo of the descending footsteps- Crabbe, it had to be Crabbe. Goyle had never woken up early, especially not this early. A chill ran down Draco's spine and he felt weaker than he remembered feeling ever since the Death Eaters had left the Manor. "Scream," he whispered, and from the back of his vision he saw Hermione look up from the soup that she hadn't even touched.

"What?" she asked, cocking up an eyebrow, almost spitting wrathfully at him.

Draco whirled around, the color draining from his already translucent visage. "Scream... s-scream, you have to scream,_"_ he begged.

"What in the bloody hell-"

Acting quickly, Malfoy whipped out his wand. He strode towards Hermione in a manner that was impossible to ignore, advancing towards her so fast that he had almost tripped over himself in the process. When he reached her, he scooped her off the ground, seizing her underneath her chin so that she stumbled back up to her feet. Forcefully, he pinned her back up against the wall, and her head slammed against the stone as he noticed the horror flooding through her eyes. Still, he stuck his weapon at her cheek, digging it so forcefully into her skin that she looked as if she were about to puncture. Hermione yelped, and Draco pressed his body against hers. "Scream, now," he growled, and Hermione did. She screamed louder than he would have ever thought possible, screamed so loud that he heard his ears ring and the sound of the footsteps above him stop dead in their tracks. Her chest rose and fell with each panting breath, Hermione looked like a terrified deer caught in the headlights.

But Draco stared only at the ceiling, his heart pounding so loud against his chest that he was almost certain Hermione could hear it. Not a single sound came to him; he heard absolutely nothing. Moments passed and Draco remained frozen, Hermione writhing weakly under his tightened grip. He could hear her breath against his, feel her pulse quickening behind the thin barrier of her bruised neck. He remained still, remained there until he heard who he knew was Crabbe begin to walk again. Then he heard the crunch of the steps near the living room, heard them stop just above his very head as the owner paused in the middle of the room over him.

Hermione trembled, her stature flimsy beneath his hold, watching him as he watched the top of the room expectingly. Then, a loud and booming voice struck through the blockade of the cement canopy above them. "Draco?" asked an unseen voice that Hermione instantly recognized as Vincent Crabbe; Draco's body stiffened. "Draco, are you down there?"

Malfoy's grip intensified and Hermione yelped at the sudden application of pressure. "Y-Yes!" responded Draco, clamping a hand over Hermione's wet mouth. He did not bother to look back at her, rather, he continued his staring contest with the black sky as he shivered violently against her torso.

There was a scuffle from above and Malfoy's heart raced. "Ah, well," seethed the voice. He knocked against the floorboards twice, sending a quick spur of chalky ash to fall ruthlessly upon Draco and Hermione together, raining them with dust. "Take your time," he permitted, and the scrape ahead of them signified that he had picked himself up. Draco didn't move a muscle. He waited for the walking to vanish, only to be relaxed once he heard the squeak of the stairs near the living room sound off again. Only then did Hermione feel Malfoy's tension drop. His body flopped forward, and he breathed out despite keeping his hold on her aching flesh. Hermione had guessed the reason for Draco's sudden relaxation, however; Crabbe had ascended back up to the bedroom and, with that, Draco's gray eyes fluttered back down to her.

For a moment he stood staring into her eyes, watching her regard him with fear that overtook her entire being. He seemed oblivious, contemplating her figure with a perplexed expression that was almost odd with inquiry. He observed her dreamily, curious about something that Hermione just could not place her finger on. And it was as if he had forgotten all about Crabbe and the danger that he had suspected himself to have been in. She analyzed his stare and stayed still in the midsts of her inexplicable terror. His eyes were glossy and simple, his mouth barely open, though just enough so that she could see the small space between his lips. Though she may have been fooling herself, Hermione thought she saw sympathy hidden somewhere inside of it.

"Mmm," Hermione whimpered, too scared to move suddenly. "Please," she begged, "you're hurting me." Instantly, Draco seemed to snap himself out of the lock he'd had on her. His fingers unclenched and he writhed back, his blond hair falling greedily over his face as he stood panting opposite her. She fumbled back down to the ground responsively, missing the bowl of the soup he'd prepared for her by inches. Yet she crumbled on the floor with her lengthy legs cocked out in front of her, her own breathing matching Draco's rapid ones. Draco's hands were in his hair, and Hermione only watched him wearily before whispering, "please don't hurt me."

"Stop talking," Malfoy instructed, but there was no real convicting in his voice. His eyes found the bowl near her hip and his shoulders dropped downwards. Despite the anxiety that covered his entire face, he slumped back into an awful stature, looking up at Hermione with an expression that was both hard and sorrowful. "Eat it."

"Please-"

"Just eat it."

Hermione scooted towards the bowl, instinctively leaping towards the spoon. She scooped up a small portion of the broth, glanced nervously at it, and then hesitantly placed the metal up to her mouth. Her face paled and she looked as if she were about to overflow with tears, yet she breathed out, finally putting the utensil in her mouth with her eyes pressed shut. She waited for the feeling of dizziness to take her over, for the sensation of tasting potions, yet she felt nothing. In fact, the had to admit that the meal was not bad, though admittedly she had not eaten anything in what she knew had been days. For a second she stared surprised at the surface of the liquid and then, noting that Draco was paying no attention to her, she dove right in to it.

Lifting the bowl up from the floor, Hermione tilted the porcelain to her lips, downing a third of the broth in an instant. She had almost forgotten how much she had missed food and, as soon as she felt it in her stomach, she could even feel a bit of her strength returning to her. Still, she yet the soup down after a hefty swallow, a little more than half remaining as she scooted it temporarily away from her. In the luxury of her meal she had almost overlooked Draco Malfoy in general. With his wand again, Hermione knew that he was supplied to torture her. And she could not relax with the very thought running around in her head, could not sit still knowing what was coming.

She only scrutinized him, however, watching as he stood almost beside himself in his anxiety. His body shook uncontrollably and he looked at the ground before he caught her watching him. Face reddening, Draco found refuge in the half-consumed bowl of soup that sat at her side. "Finish it," he demanded, and he held his wand out for good measure.

"Why?" Hermione asked, feeling more and more uneasy with every passing moment. "Why do you want me to eat it so badly?"

Malfoy stood still, gripping his wand as if he could not think of anything better to do. "You need to eat something and I need to buy myself some time. Now bloody eat it."

He hadn't acted in hostility and Hermione had noticed. She wondered why he hadn't acted, why he had even brought food down to her in the first place. Nonetheless, she took in the sight of his anxious expression, watching him wince as she pushed the soup further away from her. She grew angry at the time he was making her wait. Was he only tormenting her by waiting to hex her? She thought about the possibility quickly; such a thing would not be too far off of one Draco Malfoy. Instantly, hatred rushed through her veins. She challenged him, sneering spitefully as she narrowed her gaze and noted every shake. "I don't want it."

"What?"

"I don't want your soup, Malfoy," she stated, snapping back at him.

Draco almost snapped his wand in two. "This isn't up for negotiation, Granger," he snarled.

"Why, Malfoy, hm?" Hermione pressed on, lifting herself to a shaky stance quickly, though Malfoy didn't flinch. She ignored the pain swelling in her stomach, instead she only picked up the glass and held it out towards him with one hand. "What's the hurry, Malfoy? Don't want me to starve to death, do you?" She felt resentment towards him that she had almost never felt towards anyone before as it ran through her exterior. "Why do you want me to eat this so badly?" Draco did not respond. Hermione reeled backwards, a look of sheer hatred overtaking her pretty features. "Want to off me for yourself, do you?" she bellowed, and Draco stepped boldly forward. Hermione had, however, quite enough. "Well, I'm not giving you the bloody pleasure!"

With that, Hermione sent the glass bowl skyrocketing across the room directly at Malfoy's head. He ducked, just it time, dodging the thing only to hear it break as it hit the stone wall of the Cellar behind him. Then, it shattered subsequently to pieces. Hermione stood breathing, panting as she watched the seething expression on Malfoy's white face. He lifted his wand, ignoring her bitterness, and instantly, the glass collected itself. As if time had rewinded, the broth lifted from the floor, cleaned itself free of any dirt, and poured back into the repaired glass, good as new. Hovering the bowl in the air, Malfoy constructed the thing exactly right where he had placed it for the first time, directly in front of Hermione's own feet.

Hermione twitched. She wasn't exactly sure what had just happened, though she stared at the steaming hot soup as if it truly had come back to life. Her anger subsided for a moment, feeling numb with uncertainty that she had not felt before. Draco Malfoy had not laid a finger on her prior to the moment that he'd had her pinned against the stone wall. She wondered why she had felt so comfortable getting angry around him. She would have never had an outburst with Vincent Crabbe or the other Death Eaters around. Was it that she had not noticed anything threatening about Malfoy? Subconsciously, did she seem to know better?

Her head pieced together the clues that she seemed blinded too much so by anger to notice before. She looked at her feet, and the soup before it. He'd not poisoned it; in fact, he had been the only one to deliver her anything other than Unforgivable Curses or hexes since she'd arrived in the Cellar of the Malofy Manor. Sure he'd been snarky and impossible, but she had always known him to be. Why was it that he had not hexed her?

Reeling, Hermione glanced up, narrowing her eyes in hazy scrutiny. Her voice sounded dry when she spoke out loud, but she watched Malfoy intently when she asked him, "why did you want me to scream before?"

Any hostility in Draco Malfoy's gaze vanished completely. Now he only looked uncertain. "I didn't-" he started, but Hermione cut him off feverishly.

"Why haven't you hexed me yet?" she wondered, whispering slightly so that her voice sounded only like passing wind in the silence.

Malfoy lowered his wand minutely, as if he just was not strong enough to hold it up anymore. "I was waiting for-"

"For what?" Hermione disputed, "what we're you waiting for, Malfoy?" It was as if she could not control herself. She had been tortured for days, had been starving and cold and lonely. She had no idea what was happening in the outside world and, quite literally, she had been kept in the darkness. She knew what the Death Eaters were planning on doing with her- she had always been a smart one- and the pain of not knowing only fueled her anger. "If you're going to hex me then, do it!" Vibrantly, she stepped over the soup, her hair a mess around her face. She did not thrust out her arms, but instead stared threateningly through the blinds of her messy locks. "Do it!"

She watched Draco's wand twitch and instantly regretted her actions. His face was red with anger, his expression matching the previous one she had sported. She saw him step forward, looking murderous as he lifted his wand once again. Then she heard the harshness in his voice as he shouted, _"Crucio!"_

Hermione shut her eyes, waiting for the impact of pain to take over her body. However, she felt nothing, saw nothing. Surveying the scene, she noted that she was still standing, feet away from a perplexed Malfoy, who was staring at his wand as if it had spontaneously caught on fire. He looked as terrified as she did, sweat pouring down the front of his face. Yet Hermione could only remain still, too shocked to move even a muscle. And the two stood in that matter for moments, disbelief surrounding them both. The Unforgivable Curse hadn't worked; Hermione had been completely and utterly unharmed.

"It didn't work," Hermione breathed, looking down at her body and then snapping her attention at a stunned Draco Malfoy. "Malfoy, why didn't it work?"

Draco's arm shook tremendously. He looked utterly lost and awfully embarrassed. "I... I-I d-d-don't..."

Head spinning, Hermione almost lost her balance. Her lack of pain did not make sense, the whole situation did not make sense. She should have been knocked over, should have felt the shock of fire as it burned through every bone in her body. She was supposed to have been down, yet she could not believe how she still remained up. Buzzing, Hermione suddenly felt weaker, shell shocked as she fumbled backwards, her arms using the likes of the stone walls to support her. Stuck in the same disbelief that ran through Draco, Hermione pressed her perspiring back up against the wall. Eventually, however, she slid down the side of it, ending up back on the floor in a daze that kept her almost rooted.

And Malfoy was stuck in his position, as well, staring at his wand with wide eyes. He could hear his shaky breaths as they rattled the room, yet he was far too distracted to notice the door at the top of the steps open once again. They came instantly, impatiently, and Malfoy did not even collect a chance to prepare for them. "Draco?" for the second time Draco jumped at Crabbe's thundering voice and he wished for a moment that he would not have to be interrupted in his time alone with Hermione. The more distractions, the more likely that his fear would be sniffed out. Yet, this time Draco instinctively leapt up, spinning away from Hermione to see Crabbe's shadow as he stepped down each stair towards him.

The smile on Crabbe's face was distorted, sadistic with joy that was visible even in the dark. Hermione shrank back, and Draco heard her movements as she curled into a ball near the dirty corner. "Ah," Crabbe mused, looking Hermione over, "how are you today, Granger?" Hermione said nothing, and Crabbe's grin doubled. Satisfied, he looked back at Draco for the first time since he had entered. His facial expression then dropped. "What's wrong with you?" he frowned.

"... N-Nothing, I-I w-was j-just-"

Crabbe's eye faltered. He found the white cup before Hermione's stature and he turned his attention back to the drained Malfoy. "What's that?" he asked, jabbing his stubby thumb in the direction of the soup. "Making Granger here feel at home?" he offered jeeringly.

Draco's shoulders fell but as Hermione secretly watched, she could tell that his eyes were still wetly glazed over. She noticed the way he hid the condition of his broken arm, but said nothing. "C-Certainly the Dark Lord would not want her to starve to death," Draco responded hoarsely.

The features on Crabbe's face distorted themselves, confused. Then, however, he seemed to get a grasp on what it was that Draco was saying. Malfoy's tension faded slightly when he noticed the light return to his chubby friend's features. "You hear that, Granger?" he asked Hermione, though his eyes were locked within Draco's, "it looks like you'll be down here for a long time before we finally do decide to off you." He leaned in towards Draco, fishing his wand out of his pocket greedily. "Mind if I cut in?" he asked.

Too numb to speak up, Draco shook his head, feeling sick as he saw Crabbe excitedly position his wand.

"Brilliant. _Crucio!"_ The spell hit Hermione instantly, and the girl came spastically undone from the position that she had herself curled in. He watched her body fall forward, heard the screams of pain that sounded out from her throat. She writhed on the floor of the Cellar, her body knocking over the bowl of soup and sending vegetables and broth scattering all around the floor about her. And the look on Crabbe's face was unmistakable; he relished in every moment of it, lifting and twisting his wand to intensify the curse as he continued it.

He stopped for a second, laughing boyishly before shouting again and making Hermione cry out. _"Crucio!"_ Crabbe hissed, and the girl's torso churned. Her face hidden in the crook of her arm, Malfoy could almost hear her teeth grind against one another. He could almost feel her pain, knew exactly the sensations as he thought back to the times that he had experienced the very same curse. Yet he did not move because he could not move. Helpless, Draco could only watch Crabbe do the exact thing that he, Draco, was not able to.

It lasted longer than Draco had anticipated, though he was certain that the numbness only prolonged Crabbe's curse. When Crabbe finally stumbled back, however, Draco could only hear Hermione's sleepy breaths and he knew that she'd been put out, at least for the time being. Yet the look on Vincent Crabbe's face was unmistakable. He lived blatantly for that sort of agony, readjusting himself as if he had preformed a job well done. In the Cellar, Crabbe arched his body back, stretching out before lowering his weapon with one last breath. Then, reeling, he turned back at Malfoy and lifted the corners of his mouth in a smile that Draco found to be strange.

For a while he only stared back at Draco, his face giddy, and then only after he took notice of the odd expression that tainted Draco's exterior, did he let his shoulders drop. "What?" he asked Draco, looking incredulous. When he received no immediate answer, he shifted his heavy weight further. "W_hat, _Draco?" Searching the blond's face for a hint, Crabbe guessed, "you're not still mad about the book thing, are you?"

Book thing? It took a moment for Draco to even register what it was that Crabbe was on about. Yet, as soon as the chill left his body, he felt again the pain that stabbed him bitterly in the ankle, reminding him. "Oh," Draco answered, feeling light headed. "No, I'm not-"

"Good, because, I've been thinking Draco, and I think that all this fighting isn't going to work out. We've got to keep it together," Crabbe was saying, while Draco tried greatly to keep his eyes away from Hermione. She was injured and badly so; for the life of him he could not shake the feeling of illness. He told himself that he was not worried about her... he was just trying to keep her alive for the sake of his own social status among the Death Eaters. Still, the fear that riddled through him held him strongly. He couldn't think, and Crabbe's words only came to his ears through a thick fog that was nothing more than a mumble. "If not for us, then for Goyle, mate," Crabbe was telling him. "You know he's the weakest of us here. You know he'll be the first to break if we can't even keep it together ourselves."

Draco swallowed the large lump that had been lingering at the back of his throat. "... Yeah, I t-think-"

"I mean, I didn't hurt your ankle that bad, did I?" Crabbe asked, cocking up an eyebrow in a way that was almost demeaning. He did nothing to acknowledge the unconscious body of Hermione Granger by his own two feet.

"No, Crabbe, you didn't," Draco lied, and he tried nervously to compose himself. Crabbe's grin twitched and Draco slumped forward, his heart racing. If he didn't do something about Hermione Granger's condition, she would surely be dead in the next couple of days. He tried to think of all the reasons he did not want her to die, yet he avoided the possibility that perhaps he just did not want her to. "I think I need to catch up on sleep."

Crabbe's laughed dryly. "So no hard feelings about the other day then, right?" he asked without moving. Rather, he extended a beefy arm out in Mafloy's direction, desiring compromise within a handshake. Draco inspected Crabbe's offer and the switched his wand to the fingers of his bad arm so that he did not have to lift it. He noticed that Crabbe had spotted this, but felt relaxation in the fact that he said nothing about it. Instead, he shook Draco's hand so tightly that Malfoy felt jolts of vibrant electricity spark up to his shoulder. Feeling faint, Draco's overwhelming sense of relief flooded through him when Crabbe finally let him go.

"Brilliant," Crabbe smirked. "Now, about that sleep, you really should catch up on it, Draco. I wasn't going to say anything, but you look bloody awful." He spun from Malfoy, kicking over the bowl of soup purposely in the process, and made his way to the staircase. Draco limped cautiously behind him, avoiding the body of Hermione with his eyes until he felt that he could not take it any longer. Yet before he'd known it, he was at the top of the stone staircase, his figure behind Crabbe's as he turned to lock the Cellar door shut again.

When Draco heard the door click, he found that Crabbe had already made his way across the room. He surveyed the condition of the couch as if he had not known that Draco had spent the night on it. However, he did not bother voicing his curiosity. Instead he seemed far too pleased with the way he had restarted things with Malfoy, too content with having repaired their broken friendship. "You think you can handle the Manor to yourself for a couple hours?" he asked, and Draco's heart skipped a beat.

"What?" he asked, and his eyes followed Crabbe as he adjusted his body to find his dark black coat on the rack nearest him.

Crabbe looked blank. "Didn't you see the owl drop off a letter this morning?" he asked, shrugging when Draco did not answer him back. "Pettigrew sent something to us this morning. I found the letter on the end of my bed... bloody bird flew straight through the window," he added, contorting his face with disgust. "Anyway, he's written of good news; apparently the Death Eaters have completely overtaken the Ministry." When he spoke, there was almost a blatant casualness in his tone. He held conviction, though seemed to have been expecting such a letter for quite some time now. "It was only a matter of time after they'd offed that berk Scrimgeour."

Draco's eyes followed Crabbe, watching him approach the foot of the living room staircase and yell, "Goyle! Hurry up, for fuck's sake!" When he turned to look back at Draco, he wore an exhausted expression, as if he had been tired of waiting for Gregory Goyle all his life.

"But what does any of that have to do with you?" Draco asked, feeling distant as he held himself up by the railing near his waist.

"Goyle and I have been called for, Draco," Crabbe offered, though there was only pride in his voice. "The Death Eaters need a pair of extra eyes." He studied the expression on Malfoy's face and mistook it for hurt. "Don't feel that way, Draco," Crabbe added, clamping a hand on Malfoy's bad shoulder unknowingly. He seemed only half-interested in rubbing it in. Draco could tell, however, that he really had been trying to show a more genuine side to himself. Patching things up with Draco had really been vital to him, at least for the time being. "They also needed someone they could trust to keep an eye on the house... on Granger."

Malfoy stared at the Cellar Door. "And they volunteered me?"

"Course they bloody did!" grinned Crabbe, before he glanced up at the ceiling to hear Goyle's oncoming footsteps. "It's your job to take care of that filthy Granger, isn't it? You should be honored." Crabbe held his gaze, smiling in a way that was almost friendly. And he watched Draco stare back at him, reeling with confusion. He would not, however, get much more time to understand. Goyle's figure stumbled anxiously down the staircase, and he interrupted the seconds passing between the two of him dumbly.

"How'd you sleep?" mumbled Goyle, his face tinted pink with obvious nervousness. He looked resistant, as if he truly did not desire to leave the Manor anywhere with Crabbe or the other Death Eaters. Draco knew, however, that Goyle did not have much of a choice in the matter. In fact, voicing any sort of opposition would only result in his death sentence.

"Fine," muttered Draco down at his feet, equally as uneasy.

Crabbe rolled his eyes, lunging towards Goyle and seizing him greedily by the arm. "Come on," he hissed, and he thrust the bulk of Goyle's thick jacket into his chest before dragging him down the remaining stairs. "We'll be back sometime tonight, Draco," Crabbe informed him, nearing the door with his meaty arm outstretched. Then he pulled the thing open, stepping out into the early morning with Goyle at the ends of his fingers.

The door slammed around him, and the room rattled. There was a pop, and the wind in the space beside the Manor shifted. They had gone, Apparated. He, Draco Malfoy, was once again alone, and he leaned back against the railing in a manner that was only slightly confused, but all the more relieved. Yet something stopped him from sinking too far into his bout of relaxation.

For the life of him, he just could not take his eyes of the surface of the door to the Cellar.

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**Vonne: **I will have chapter seven as soon as possible. I am working on it right now, as well! Please don't hesitate to leave me your thoughts and comments in a review! Anyway, if any of you were curious as to how "Pa Pa Power" came to be the title of this chapter, I can offer a bit of a strange explanation. For the most part, the song is about anarchy. I think, in this situation, much of what's going on in the Manor is the same type of chaos. Crabbe, of course, has the most control. Yet the chorus of "please make me better" is the voice in Draco's head, perhaps even Hermione's. Hopefully, that makes more sense. Does it work? What do you think? I'm interested, HAHA.


	7. Dead Hearts

**Vonne:** This is a very, very long chapter, almost 10,000 words in total! I'm so excited to have had it done so quickly! Thank you for all of you that reviewed on the last chapter, but unfortunately I have no time to respond back today. I will make a point to do so next update- which I am working on at the moment. Thank you so much for your continual interest. I have to warn you though, this chapter is a bit graphic...

Anyway, chapter seven is definitely going to be a turning point in 'Cellar Door'. I hope you're excited about the direction! Thank you to:

**Psychic City**, **LE Candeh**, **MCLanna**, **LivelyMcBrighten**, **LilyRousseau**, **Pearlrose33**, **Corey Fitzwilliam**, **Isabella120**, and **TragicSlytherin**. I know I updated this chapter pretty early on, but I appreciate it so much when I get reviews! Thank you, thank you, thank you. Despite how gruesome this chapter is, the exceedingly long length of it is for my reviewers!

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_"I wont go whistling by your grave, if you don't go whistling in my mind. Welcome to a place where nightmares are the best part of my day."  
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**Chapter Seven**  
**Dead Hearts**

Draco Malfoy had come to be uncertain about most things over the months he'd spent at the Manor, but one thing he was very, very certain of was the fact that he was certainly not a Gryffindor.

He did not fit into the typical do-good nature of the lot and, therefore, he did not care to see himself as such. Nonetheless, he was, and had always had been, a Slytherin to the very end- cunning, witty, and ambitious. Yet, at the particular time of day that Draco had currently found himself in, he dared to wish he had been sorted into the house that had also belonged to that Golden Boy, Potter. What he'd needed was bravery, though he had to admit it was something that he had lost during his stay at his childhood home. Thus, without it, he could only stare at the Cellar Door that locked Hermione Granger beneath it. Unmoving and rooted to the ground by his bare feet, he could only remain still. Yet wishing to have been put into Gryffindor was a strange desire, though Malfoy did not really see it as anything more than a desperate plea. He'd needed to make his move, if such a move were ever going to be made, and he'd needed to do it fast.

He thought quickly, feeling numb. So he wasn't a Gryffindor- big deal, he didn't need that obnoxious group anyways. But what he was, was a Slytherin; eyeing the living room around him, he strove to take that fact to his advantage. Gray eyes scanned the couch, and the mess that he had left with the tray and the scattered display of snacks. Then he followed the trail of wine, red like blood, as it slithered towards the glass door of his father's lovely liquor cabinet. Goyle must have stopped for more before heading to bed, but Draco did not think badly of him. Rather, stumbling, Malfoy only staggered after it, thinking of how he did not need to possess courage at all; such things could always be manufactured with whiskey.

And sometime around an hour later, when Draco had garnered about enough whiskey to last him an afternoon, he finally felt content with the fleeting amount of bravery that he actually did bear. Lightness took over his heavy head, and he collected himself into an improper stance as he pulled himself up from the floor of the cabinet. Chilly, he yanked his dark black coat from the rack by the door to cover up his pyjama shirt. However, far too fractured to bother covering up his sloppy sweatpants, Draco instead yanked the bottom leg of the trousers down only to conceal the swelling front of his unsightly ankle. Standing against the wall of the Cellar, with his back pressed defeatedly against it, Draco swayingly contemplated the idea, listening to the soft breaths of Hermione Granger sleeping in the room the rest below him. It was as if he could not take ignoring her anymore. Sometime soon she was going to die and even the thought of it made his head spin faster. Though the drink made him feel drowsy, however, he could not deny that he was determined. Thus, because he had consumed a fair amount of alcohol by then, he took to ignoring the aches. Rather, he still managed to stagger to his feet and advance towards the door with whole-hearted frustration.

Nonetheless, he made a grab for the newspaper at he coffee table and tried not to glance down at the moving pictures that only further made him nauseous. Instead, he faced the bold door with his wand raised high, muttering the spell to open it without hesitation. Then, reeling, he stumbled down the steps, shaking as he finally came to see her shadow there before him. He saw the overturned soup bowl that Crabbe had sent flying, saw the way in which its contents had marked the room. And he could see that Hermione had not woken up yet; still curled in a loosely wound ball, Hermione Granger's figure rest sloppy on the stone floor that lie under his feet. He considered her there, stood above her with unease that was only further fogged by the consumption of liquor. Whatever he was going to do, he needed to do then. He had no time, and frankly, he had no choice.

So Draco collapsed numbly to his feet, crouching in front of Hermione with his hands timidly outstretched. Slowly, he placed his palm on her shoulder and, with a light tug, he turned her torso around so that she was flat upon her back. Chewing furiously on his lower lip, Draco brushed the stray strand of bushy hair from her eyes and watched her unconscious face peaceful in the ignorant barriers of sleep. He could see that her hair was riddled with blood, matted together in a way that was vile and almost repulsive. However, he found himself staring for a length of time that was far too long, hastily redirecting his focus to the bloody surface of her abdomen.

And there it was, the infected gash that only seemed to taunt him further in the unnecessary darkness. Thing thing appeared enormous, as if it had taken over her entire stomach. Soaking through the fabric of her freshly torn shirt, it pooled over with blood that was both fresh and old, dried and wet. He winced, pulling back before bracing himself and starting again. The wound leaked blatantly through the material of her clothing and Draco knew that it was only a matter of time before it would kill her. And trembling, Draco pulled out his wand, his fingers tight around it as if he were about ready to be sick. Yet his mind thought back; Snape had taught him something in Healing and Malfoy anxiously searched his brain. He remembered the night that Harry Potter had cursed him in the bathrooms, and, feeling hazy, he pressed his eyes shut to recollect the potion instructor's spell.

Then something slanted around him; the body next to him gave a slight twitch and Malfoy stumbled backwards, his palms scraping mercilessly against the stone beneath him. In the darkness he stared back down at the girl; now heaving, her eyes had opened and, frightened, she watched him wide-eyed as he sat crookedly above her. And Malfoy only sat, shaking as he saw her mouth move to form words that she could not. Her brown eyes were watery and reflective, begging up at him in the same way that she stared terrified at him. He could see it in her features; she did not want this, she did not want to die.

She made a gurgling noise that sent both blood and spit trailing from her mouth, wincing as she tried to speak. Yet Malfoy only shook, watching her numb and nauseated as she attempted unsuccessfully to shift her body on the ground before him. "... Pl... p-please," she coughed, and Draco heard it clearly. Her figure, lifeless and pathetic, was almost consumed by the large gash in her stomach; blood absorbed the edges of her clothing, dying it a vibrant color of red in the process. Her face scrunched up and her throat emitted noises as if she were being strangled. And she could barely keep her head upright; within the passing moments, her skull lulled to the side so that she faced Malfoy head-on. "... It h-hurts..."

Draco did the most he could to stop the shake from his own body. Swallowing, he fumbled to reach for his wand, his fingers sweaty and slippery around the end of it. "_Shhh_," he whispered, and he could smell the amount of liquor in his breath as it danced before him tauntingly. "_Shh_, Granger, just..." he stopped, hazy. Just what? He couldn't finish the sentence for himself. Just... what? Sit there and let it pass, lie there and trust him? He could see it from the look in her horrified features, she couldn't even do it. He, Draco Malfoy, was the last person in the world that she could trust. She knew what he was, knew what he had been sent down there for on timeless occasions to do. And why was this time any different? Why should she have trusted him now?

"... D-Don't w-want... t' d-die..." Hermione sputtered, and Draco froze.

Malfoy's head hurt, his vision blurred. All he could see was Hermione and the deep, infected gash, and the way that her eyes watched him so intently that he felt so small and so helpless all at once. And he found himself telling her, "close your eyes," only to be surprised that she did. Her chest rose quickly, and her pupils beneath her eyelids twitched nervously. But Draco braced himself for everything that he had because, despite it all, he didn't want her to die, either. And then, shivering, he turned back to his wand, holding it over her heaving chest unsteadily as if he had forgotten how to preform magic in the first place. Yet he watched her through his own image of discomfort, waiting for himself to make a move, waiting for himself to say the spell that was on the very tip of his tongue.

He had to do it, because it was now or never and, if he waited any longer, he would no longer be staring at Hermione Granger, but her corpse- and the thought terrified him. Hermione's gasping brought him back to reality, snapped him back to the dank Cellar and the dark cloud of torment behind it. He wanted to run, but he couldn't, wanted to be sick, but he held it in. Rather, he pitched himself forward, staring curiously down at her stomach and thinking of how the skin looked almost carved from her abdomen. A ping of intoxicating guilt took over him; he hadn't done it, but he may as well have. It was his fault- he'd dared Goyle to go down to the Cellars only the night before. He'd caused this. It was all on him... all of it.

And when he couldn't take it any longer, Draco Malfoy lifted his shoulders and leaned in. The air around them seemed faint, and his head felt heavy. Yet, he slowed his breathing, calmed himself as he focused on her torso and nothing more. "_Vulnera Sanetur." _It was more like a song than anything, the way his choppy and broken voice said it out loud was even almost comforting. Still, he found himself stammering, lifting his hands over her as his insides churned in the process. Yet he could not believe that it was working. Before his eyes, Granger's wounds seemed to sink back into her body, absorbing within themselves. Though it seemed that Hermione could not either. For a moment his attention had faltered; Hermione's own eyes had burst open, her chest heaving with the intake of a rather impressive breath. As if she had been held underwater, Hermione gasped for air, feeling the sensation of her first sufficient breath. And she watched him through the dizziness, her eyes fearful and inquisitive as Draco only watched the injury mend itself. First went the blood, and then interlaced her skin; he could see it knit from the tear of her shirt. Once he had whispered the spell for the third time, Hermione Granger's skin looked untainted, as if it had never been touched at all.

Then, Draco leaned forward, shaking despite the chill. His palms held his knees and he bent his head low into his chest, almost too exhausted to move any further. And he kept his attention away from Hermione who, astounded, could not help but feel stronger and healthier on the stone ground that she had been placed upon. He'd done it- he'd healed her and she looked strangely better, as if she had only been minutely touched by the Death Eaters and Crabbe put together. And though he heard her move, he kept his eyes cast away from her.

But slowly, Hermione felt her stomach, her fingers touching the newly repaired skin as if it had never been damaged in the first place. She was able to lift her head and her neck, craning forward to garner for herself a better look. Fractured, her breaths sounded out to him as if she couldn't quite believe what had happened herself. However, after a short while of considering her newly reformed condition, her brown eyes filled with tears and relief flooded through her spastically as she finally leaned back, her head against the stone once more, to breathe with ease.

The room seemed to stop spinning and Hermione pressed her eyes shut again. "Why?" she asked softly, this time Draco was positive he had heard her correctly.

He stopped panting, feeling his fingers tense up around his weapon. "It was infected, Granger" he told her honestly, running a trembling hand through his blond hair. "You would have died."

Hermione stared back at him; she was the brightest witch of her age. Of course she would have known that the gash on her body was infected. Still, her look was of pure uncertainty. "Why did you do that?" she asked, looking lost, though she did not move. Instead, she remained on the floor as if it were truly impossible to get up. "Isn't that the point?" she murmured, "to kill me?"

"Not by a bloody infected _wound_, its not." Draco retracted, looking back up at her with an expression that was almost hardened. Then, he pulled himself forward, breathing hard, as he tried to direct himself into a sufficient stance. However, his ankle did not position itself properly and he almost staggered back down to her, despite leaning against the stone wall for support.

"You're hurt," Hermione whispered, staring up at him again. Malfoy gritted his teeth.

"I'm fine," he said flatly, but Hermione lifted her head.

Hermione Granger was peered up at him, her black eye almost swelled shut. Through the dizziness that enveloped her frame, however, the girl could still make out the figure of the blond in the corner. And, feeling oddly stronger, she managed to pick her upper torso up, positioning herself so that she was half lifted on her elbows to survey the scene around her. Heart pumping rapidly in his chest, Draco only watched her, her presence a bit more sturdy since he had patched up the monstrosity of her stomach. Though it had been the third time he had been caught within her cell, Draco once again found moving an impossibility. And, staring back at her, he heard the girl's hoarse voice when she choked out, "no you're not fine... you were hurt the last time..."

He didn't say a word, but he wasn't certain he knew what to say in the situation anyway. Instead, he took to ignoring her, staggering away from her seated body as fast as his body would allow him. His only focus was at the door, the one that rest on the top of the steps, though he could not help but admit that it looked almost miles away. "Wait," Hermione breathed, though Malfoy didn't sstop limping, "where are you going?"

Draco's head spun. Perhaps he should have knocked her unconscious after he had healed her- that way he would not have had to put up with her talking. "I'm going upstairs," he told her, since she had insisted upon knowing, "to have a glass of my father's cheapest and most appalling whiskey, and then I'm going to bed."

Hermione leaned back against the wall, looking oddly concerned. "You're not going to heal yourself?" she asked him.

"And how do you suppose I go about doing that, Granger?" Draco hissed, leaning against the wall to hug his stomach. The room had begun to sway and the sensation of sharp pains only ran up his body and made him feel like jelly.

Looking taken aback, Hermione asked ignorantly, "won't one of your 'lot' heal you?"

Malfoy only tossed her a chilly look before doubling back over and sinking to the ground near the staircase. He didn't say a word to her. Instead, he only curled up within himself, brining his knees to his chest and slipping his black coat from his shoulders. It didn't matter to him that he looked lost and childish in his pyjamas; he only wished that the room would come to terms with him. He wished that everything would stop whirling and that he could walk on his own two feet without staggering. For the millionth time in his life, he wished he hadn't drank so much.

"You're just going to go on like that?" Hermione asked him again, but her voice sounded so loud and the echo effect that it carried throughout the Cellar made Malfoy's stomach lurch.

He held out a hand, shaky and unprepared. "Stop talking, Granger," he hissed, and then folded back into himself. Hermione watched him, biting her lip. She could smell the whiskey even from her distance, was sure he'd consumed more than she had in what had perhaps been her entire lifetime. And then, everything was silent. She could only sit and watch; numb, she tried to only do exactly what he'd asked.

But Malfoy was off someplace in his own world of tilting visuals and pulsating voices. Hermione's last statement hung in the air as if from a laundry wire. But she was okay, and he'd healed her. Running a hand through his messy blond hair, Draco Malfoy realized that it was the first act he had done on his own accord, the first time he had done something without the command of another Death Eater. He hadn't been told what to do and how to do it; instead, he had made the choice himself. Though perhaps he had been overly intoxicated, Draco found that he didn't really know who he was anymore, because he was certainly not his father, and he was certainly not a Death Eater. Nonetheless, he glanced down at his arm, burning with the sensation of the Mark he'd been branded with only the prior summer. Then, defeated, he had to take it back: he was a Death Eater, and there was really no escaping it.

Sinking, Draco clasped his hands over his face, not truly out of sadness, though why he was not exactly sure. He told himself that he overwhelming amount of alcohol he had consumed had done the trick, made him useless just before he contemplated picking himself back up and leaving Hermione Granger to her inquiry. Yet the weakness of his torso made him stay, kept him perched against the wall as if he were glued to it. He could still feel the sensation of pins and needles in his arm; Granger was right, he'd surely broken it. Mending it, however, was not something that would come easily- though Draco had managed to heal Hermione, growing bones was a different story completely. And he thought back to the time in Hogwarts when, at a time like this, he wouldn't have had to lug around a useless arm and leg all at once. Back in the time when he actually did attend the school, a trip to the Hospital Wing would have done the trick easily. But that was then, and this was now, and Draco Malfoy was almost positive that he was never going back to Hogwarts ever again.

"You don't like it here, either, do you?" Draco Malfoy glanced up. He wasn't sure how long ago it had been since he had told her not to speak, but it seemed as if Hermione just could not help herself. "I can see it in your eyes that you don't," she said breathlessly.

Malfoy tossed Hermione a cold glare. "You don't know what I like and don't like," he hissed, and Hermione tilted her head, slowly figuring him out. Malfoy, however, tucked his head furiously back into his knees, listening to her voice as it sounded out all around him.

"I can tell that you're miserable here, too."

Draco Malfoy chewed on his lower lip. He blamed the alcohol for making him feel weak, for bothering to listen to her in the first place. But the knotting sensation in his throat greeted him mercilessly and he prayed that she would just stop talking. Of course he didn't bloody well like it at the Manor, Hermione was not all that brilliant for piecing it together. He wished, however, that he had not been so fucking obvious. But she was right and he could feel his eyes get wet and he hated it because it was Moaning Myrtle all over again. But this was different because this wasn't Myrtle, this was Hermione, a living, breathing being. Myrtle was dead and Hermione knew him. She'd gone to school with him and even punched him once.

He'd made her school life hard and had called her a Mudblood, and had wished that the Chamber of Secrets' basilisk would finish her off first. This wasn't Myrtle and this wasn't a bathroom because this was Hermione Granger and a Cellar, and a whole bunch of things in between that only made Draco retch and feel dizzy. He prayed that this was a nightmare, but came up unsuccessful because this was reality and he, Draco, was only just stuck in it. And he couldn't help the feeling that made him sink, made him useless and helpless and unfamiliar. And it was frustrating because he did not recognize himself, could not recognize himself. More than anything in the world he wanted to be that same old Draco Malfoy again, that would have killed Hermione and ended it all when he'd had the chance. But that Draco was long gone, to where he didn't know; he hadn't shown up on the Astronomy Tower with Dumbledore, and he certainly wasn't showing up now.

"You're different from the rest of them," Hermione added, and Malfoy shoulders sagged. He didn't feel any different. The rolled up stature of his sleeves obvious, he was certain Hermione could make out the Dark Mark on his pale forearm.

"Stop talking, Granger," Draco coughed, trying to sound composed.

"Why?" Hermione sounded riled up, offended even. "Why, so you can just go on and pretend to be like them?" She slammed her head back against the stone; Draco could heard the thud. "For fuck's _sake_, Malfoy, I can see right through you."

Draco turned his head away from her, looking up towards the door, though he was certain he still would not be able to make it. "I'm supposed to kill you, you know," he told her uneasily, "and you're not making it easy, Granger." With that, he pressed his head against the turn of his knee, almost wishing that the door would come down to fetch him. He knew, however, that it wasn't Hermione's fault that he could not end her life. Still, he found it far more satisfying to pass the blame on to her.

Hermione stared at him for a long time. For a moment she appeared uncomfortable, then, shifting her weight, she asked gently, "when are you supposed to do it?"

"Do what?"

"Kill me."

Running his hand through his hair, Malfoy breathed out. "After they get Potter and Weasley here," he told her, flatly, "then I'm to off you before Voldemort offs Potter."

"So," Hermione asked, "I'm supposed to be luring Harry here? I'm the bait?"

Malfoy ran his hand over his eyes, hoping that she didn't see him do it. "That's exactly what you are," he told her, and his blond hair fell lifelessly across his clammy forehead. She'd got it, figured it out without trying much. He'd figured as much, however; it wasn't like anyone was trying to keep it a secret.

"So, why prolong it?" Hermione asked him, looking serious. She lifted up her shoulders and her brunette hair slid off of them smoothly, despite the grease. "Why not just kill me now? You could tell Harry that I'm alive, and he'd still come looking," her face was concerned and earnest, profoundly sad. Then, looking down at her feet, she scuffed her heel against the stone floor. "It wouldn't make a difference," she explained. Draco stared at the door. She was right; he didn't have to wait. Killing her and then making Potter think her to be alive would be only too easy. So then, why hadn't he done it? What the bloody hell was he really waiting for, then?

Malfoy glanced down at his wand. He could kill her, if he'd wanted. All he had to do was utter the spell under his breath, point the tip of his wand at her limp torso. It would only hurt her for a moment, but then it would all be over with and Malfoy wouldn't have to sneak around to do stupid things like heal her. He wouldn't have to bother making her things to eat or pretending to descend down to the Cellar to torture her. He was only making his life a lot more difficult, and yet he still couldn't do it. For that, he loathed himself.

And Hermione seemed to see right through him. "You can't do it, can you?" she asked him finally once the silence had gone on for too long.

Draco glanced up at her, hoping his face had dried. His face was contorted and he scowled at her in a manner that was almost forced. "What the bloody hell are you on about?" he snapped, not bothering to shove the blond locks from his face.

"The Cruciatus curse," Hermione stated, slanting her head forward so that it parted from the wall behind her. "It didn't work before."

Malfoy's head spun again. He was going to be sick, he just knew it. He didn't like the way his eyes stung and his throat clenched. And he tried to think that this was anything but like the time in the bathrooms with Myrtle. "And?" he snapped, "what does that prove?"

"The only time a curse would not work was under the condition that the caster did not mean it." Hermione looked down tat the ground and then looked back up at Draco, her eyes deep and meaningful. "When you hexed me," Hermione continued, looking slightly invasive, "did you not mean it?"

"Course I bloody well meant it, Granger. What good would keeping you alive do for me?"

Hermione didn't falter backwards against the wall again. Instead, she kept her gaze on him, still unmoving expect for her lips. "I don't know," she shrugged simply. Then she narrowed her eyes and Malfoy didn't like it; it was as if she were testing him. "You tell me. You were the one that couldn't do it. You're the one that came down here and healed me."

Feeling heated, Draco's nails dug deeply into his knees. What exactly was she playing at? Did she want to only provoke him? If that was her mission, of course, she was doing a right well job at it. However, he only remained put, picking at his skin underneath his sweatpants greedily. His teeth ground together and he remembered how obnoxious he'd always thought she was. He could have knocked her unconscious, but instead he could not prevent the burning desire he had to prove himself. "I was drunk then," he hissed, "the curse didn't work because I was drunk."

Hermione shook her head, "you're always drunk." Then she cocked her chin towards him, gesturing slightly, "you're drunk right now, and you healed me in the same condition."

Draco flushed, "that's completely different."

"Oh?" Hermione asked, falling flat. "How so?"

Enraged, Draco turned to the Mark on his arm, pulling out his shoulder so that the girl could get a better look. "What do you think is, then, hm?" he asked her, raising an eyebrow. Hermione only glanced down at it, watching curiously. He wondered if Potter had told her he'd been marked with it; there was no look of surprise on her face. However, she looked carefully back up at him, her eyes slanted as if she were trying to see directly through him to the wall. "You don't think I can do it, Granger, do you? Well, you're sadly mistaken. I'd kill you right here and now if I'd wanted to. I'm rather enjoying watching you suffer, on the other hand. I'm particularly enjoying watching you wait to die."

"You haven't come down to do what the others do," Hermione said back, "you've been here often, but only to... to bring me soup and heal my stomach." She made a perplexed face, as if she was still piecing together everything in her head again. "Everyone else has been down here for other reasons. You, however... have not."

Malfoy turned bluntly away from her, hugging his knees so tightly now that he thought they might have popped at any given moment. Rather, his eyes bore mental holes in that dammed door, burning it down in his bitterness. She'd got him and he clearly had no way around it. How so? He didn't even know. Yet Hermione only seemed so adamant on having him admit it- admit that he wasn't one of the Death Eaters, that he was different. But Draco didn't even know if it were true for himself.

Viciously, however, he turned back towards her, venom practically dripping from his face. "What do you want me to tell you, Granger, huh?" he coughed, picking himself back up. Hermione noticed the swagger, but she said nothing, watched him only advance towards her in pieces. He limped in her direction, shrugging up his shoulders and she could see now that he had been crying before; his cheeks, usually a ghostly shade of translucent white, looked bright red and his eyes dark from the lack of sleep. "What is it you're playing at?"

It was the second time he'd stood in front of her with such hostility, but he had managed to look strangely torn. Nonetheless, he seemed dumbstruck when Hermione opted to picking herself up form the floor, as well, challenging him. He stalled for a moment, looking drained, but then flicked his wand underneath her chin defensively. Hermione, however, seemed nonchalant. She glanced over at his discarded coat and looked him up and down in his flimsy pyjamas. Dressed in his nightclothes, Draco Malfoy didn't look like a Death Eater at all. Instead, he looked like nothing more than a boy.

"You want to get out of here as bad as I do," Hermione quipped, and Draco's menacing expression flickered before going out completely. Stumbling away from her, Malfoy did his best to collect himself. She watched his back as he turned away from her, his shoulders heaving as he grabbed the locks of his hair in a deranged way with his only good arm. "Harry can help you," she told him, slowly, "he can help us both get out of here."

Malfoy spun around, stumbling despite his hardened gaze. "I don't need your fucking _help._ And I definitely don't need Potter's!" he spat. "And so what? Maybe I _don't_ like it here, Granger, but I can bloody well handle myself." He stared at her, waiting, his hair a mess, his shoulders slumped. Then he watched the expression on her face changed and he knew he had messed up; he'd admitted it. "Is that it?" he asked her, chocking back tears, "is that what you wanted to hear?"

Hermione tilted her head to one side, still examining him. "It's not a bad thing, Malfoy," she said, feeling weightless and strangely more relaxed. "It means that you're not actually a monster after all." Draco laughed so pitifully that he felt pathetic, looking down at the ground with so much anger he could have shot cracks through it. "Look," she said blankly, "both you and I want to get out of here, right? Well, how about we help each other, then?"

Draco felt weaker than he ever had before. He wished he could take it all back, but Hermione had heard him and it was no use. He laughed at his pathetic attitude, how erasing her memory still wouldn't help him out- he'd still slump back into the same position that he was in now. Time and time again, he still wouldn't be able to kill her. "And how do you propose that, Granger?" Draco shot, but Hermione's eyes were on the crumbled up newspaper in the corner.

She looked up at him, "you have an owl, do you not?"

Malfoy tossed his eyes, "of course." He couldn't believe that he was even bothering to hear her out.

"Well, I can write to Harry- listen for a second, okay, stop making that _face-_ I can write to Harry. I can tell him where I am, prolong this, keep him aware. Then we can plan a diversion. A distraction. When the Death Eaters least expect it, we'll make out way out." The depths of her face contorted. She looked pleading, almost, gentle. "I just need to keep in contact with Harry."

Draco's face fell. He looked back at her, but something had gone from him entirely. He was right and he knew it- she had to get out of the Manor, _he_ had to get out of the Manor. This whole thing, it wasn't a game anymore, it wasn't fun. He no longer wanted to be a Death Eater, no longer wanted to live with them. It was desensitizing and insane; he was no longer himself and he wasn't really anybody. And Draco didn't care about money or status; he just wanted to leave, to live by himself where, whether the Death Eaters lost the War or not, no one would know where to find him.

He knew that she could see it, too, knew that she had been successful in figuring him all out. Limply, he lost his stern stature. He looked sloppy, like nothing more than a person made of puddy. Rather, he watched her so intently that he was certain turning back now would never come to him. He had to do it for himself and for obnoxious Granger, for that ridiculous Potter, and for all the people that he was sure he'd be told to kill otherwise. And now, the way he saw it, he really didn't even have a choice.

Sore, he heard himself ask, "how?" and Hermione's expression brightened.

"See that paper over there?" she asked, striking out her hand so that she could extend a finger towards the thing near his dark coat. Malfoy glanced over towards the thing, but found that Hermione was nearing it. And he ran his hand over his face as she reached for it, leaning back against the wall as his legs felt weak all over again. He looked over his shoulder weakly, saw her grab it and pick it up, stumbling back towards him with an almost girlish sense of excitement. "I can write a letter to him on this, let him know I'm okay."

Draco watched her numbly. Buzzing, he spoke, but when he did so he almost heard his own voice from a distance. "And why would he believe the words on a piece of paper?"

"My handwriting," Hermione said, as if it were obvious. She looked at Draco, smiling broadly. "Ron and Harry had it practically _memorized._ They copied my homework every term." Her teeth glistened in the dark, as if she were proud of the fact. Malfoy felt sick. "Malfoy," Hermione said, having seemed to take note of his ill exterior, "if you don't do this, then you're going to have to kill me." She said it as if it were an alterer; there was no fear in her voice anymore, she knew she'd had him convinced. "If you don't kill me," she said, stepping slightly forward and there was a hint of compassion in her voice, "they're going to kill you. Harry told me what you told Dumbledore on the Astronomy Tower-" Draco flinched; she'd struck a cord, "- you don't want to do this."

Looking back at her, Malfoy felt his guts churn. She looked so knowing, so content and hopeful all at the same time. And there he was, so unsure and numb- drunk and foolish. Yet he only looked at her, watching her carefully before snapping back to reality. This was Hermione Granger he was considering striking a deal with- one of Harry Potter's best mates. Agreeing to do anything with her was more humiliating than carrying on with the Death Eaters who, at least for the time being, had not laid a finger on him since their departure. Surely it had been the alcohol that had made him think so stupidly. He, Draco Malfoy, could handle such issues himself.

And what did she know, anyway? Perhaps, even in time, he would come to terms with killing Hermione; when it came to it, maybe when he'd utter the curse, he'd mean it.

He heard the scrape of Hermione slinking forward and felt pressure when she laid a hand on his shoulder. He couldn't help it, his heart picked up and he wanted to shove her. What was she doing touching him? They weren't friends... weren't anything really. She was the Death Eater's plaything, their victim. Had she hit her head? Fell down a hole? From what sort of concussion had she suffered from? Certainly she had not thought that he, Draco Malfoy, was going to fall for such unnecessary compassion.

Stumbling back, Draco pulled his shoulder away. "You don't know what I want to do," he told her again, for good measure. "You don't know _anything,_ so stop acting like you do!" He pulled out his wand, struck it under her chin and heard Hermione hold her breath. "When the time comes," he saw her look down, note his shaking palms and he dug the end of his wand deeper into her flesh to distract her, "I'll have you dead and buried in the yard with the rest of them."

Then, with that, he snapped away from her. Watching as she slumped back against the wall, he saw her eyes focus back at him widely, stunned. And she remained shaking in silence as he levitated his coat up from the ground and climbed the stairs quickly, slamming the door shut behind him conclusively. And then, once again, she was left alone in the darkness.

* * *

He sat with his head in his hands and his eyes pressed shut. Since his conversation with Hermione Granger in the dark Cellar of his childhood home, Draco had been left with the remaining liquor at the bottom of the bottle he had left waiting for him. Now the room spun even quicker than before. Dark had come to greet him, as well, submitting the day to night and concluding the final chapters of his drunken afternoon. He could smell the stench of it on his breath as he breathed into his lap, watched the floor by his bare feet swirl with every passing second. And then the footsteps from the gravel outside his house came to his head. He'd heard them before he could even manage to shift his stature; Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle had finally returned.

_"Oof!" _he heard one of them gruff, though he instantly assumed it to have been Goyle. "It's so heavy," the whine came again, seeping through the thick barriers of the Manor walls. Goyle sounded desperate, shaky, as if he had been forced to carry weights up to the front. Yet he did not hear anything drop, and he figured that the two had carried on, despite the struggle. Nonetheless, Draco looked up, peered through the glass window, but only saw nothing but blackness.

"I don't give a _damn_ about how heavy it is, Goyle. Do. Not. Drop. It." Crabbe voice hissed out through the wind harshly and Draco saw the shadows form into one, great big lump. "Draco!" called Crabbe and his voice sounded strained with something desperate, "Draco, for fuck's sake, open the door!"

Malfoy glanced up, his head spinning so fast that he was not truly sure that he was standing on solid ground anymore. Everything moved as if he were on a boat, nothing stayed still. "You- sure- he can-_ugh-_ you sure he can hear you, Crabbe?" huffed Goyle, who breathed so deeply that it sounded almost unbearable. "Merlin, _the stench!"_

"He'd better hear me- _Draco! Wake up!_ We're home, get the bloody door!" Crabbe hollered, thinking Draco to have fallen asleep. Then he turned back to Goyle, whipping around angrily. "I don't care how much it fucking stinks, Goyle, do not drop it! DRACO!"

The room spiraled, but Malfoy cleared his head, stumbling towards the front door as he used the living room furniture to support himself properly. He placed his head against the wall nearest the front door, giving himself a moment to collect his stature before lifting his good arm to turn the brilliant gold knob at the other end of it. Then slowly he pried the heavy thing open, blinking out into the front yard, scanning the scenery for them. First he noted their shadows, slumped under the starry sky he made Crabbe out first; his back was towards Draco and his hands were hoisted out in front of him, holding a pair of two bare and bloody feet.

Draco slipped away from the wall and felt his chest twist. His insides flipped. When Goyle poked his pudgy head out from the side of Crabbe, however, the boy turned around, passing Draco a look before heaving aloud, "back away from the bloody door, would you?" There was nothing friendly to his tone as he had remembered beforehand. Only, Crabbe kept his eyes focused on Draco for a moment before turning back to his front, eyeing Goyle before saying, "oh, come off it, Goyle, its only a couple more feet."

Goyle's face was green, drained completely. He looked down and away from Draco as if he were going to be sick all over himself. He held it in, swallowing a big bile before shaking his head and turning away completely. And Malfoy staggered to one side, as he was told, watching their figures near him unsteadily.

Crabbe pushed himself through the door first and then Malfoy saw it. He held the body of a damaged and tortured corpse. It was brutal, the state of it, the way that the mouth dangled open and the teeth inside of it were missing. Both of the eyes were swollen shut, a finger missing from the globe-like orb that Malfoy guessed was once a hand. The person must have been a woman, and a Muggle one at that- dressed in casual clothes that Draco instantly thought strange, he couldn't have marked her as anything else _but_ a Muggle. Yet the complexion of her face was almost unclear, unrecognizable. There was something about her jaw that had been caved in, something about her skull that looked almost broken.

And Malfoy only stood there dumbstruck and uneasy, feeling even more numb as Goyle and Crabbe lowered the body onto the floor, heaving with the weight and the mere stench of it. Goyle staggered back, tripping over his own two feet before rushing away from the living room, clamoring down the hall, and vanishing into the house completely. They heard the clinging noise of porcelain and waited for him to retch. Crabbe, however, only stood back. There was no smile on his face, but there was no frown either. Instead, he dusted his hands off, tossed Draco an annoyed glance, and brushed his hair back with the palm of his filthy hand.

"What is that?" Draco asked dumbly. He hadn't looked up and away from it. Only everything seemed to be a big giant blur of nothingness in front of him and he, too, wanted to follow Goyle's lead of rushing off. However, he felt rooted.

Huffing, Crabbe's shoulders arched before falling. He looked as if he were not going to answer, but when Draco remained silent, he glanced up, scrutinizing Malfoy before putting on a curious expression of inquiry. "What do you think it is?" Crabbe laughed, lifting a brow unbelievingly. He knew Malfoy was not going to answer him, so he finished for himself readily, "its some Muggle girl." He leaned back tired; carrying her had taken quite a lot out of him. "The Death Eaters wanted her to look perfect. We had to carry her here instead of Levitating her."

Malfoy's eyes blurred. "Why?" he muttered strangely.

"She had to look perfect," Crabbe explained, a bit more proud now that he had pulled the girl inside. Then he turned his head back in the direction of the Cellar door, smiling to himself before slipping to the floor and peering down at the body contently. "For Granger." Malfoy didn't move. He couldn't think of anything to say. Only, he felt his mouth part slightly, felt his shoulders drop and his heart plummet. Surely he hadn't meant what he had thought he'd meant. Yet, the more Draco thought about it, the more he was certain. "The Death Eaters were kind enough to offer that filthy little Mudblood a glance into her future," Crabbe smirked.

Out of instinct, Malfoy turned to look out the window to the emerald field that stretched out before him. The woods appeared to laugh at him mercilessly, happy to have welcomed another corpse into their midsts. His throat clenched; Goyle was right, the smell was terrible. "We're supposed to bury her?" he asked finally, once he found his misplaced voice.

"_Her?_" Crabbe asked, looking taken aback. He did not see the severity of the corpse and the situation at all. Only, he appeared more indulged with the idea that the body had been carrying had once had a gender at all. Perplexed, he looked rather amused with the notion that the corpse had even been anything else but an 'it'. "You think its a 'her'?" He tilted his head, mulling it over before deciding, "well, I suppose, Draco, but its not like any of it matters anymore." Then he bent forward, nudging a part of the body's flesh with the tip of his boot. "The Death Eaters did some impressive work with your 'girl' then, didn't they, Draco?" he beamed, and his beady eyes sparkled in the light of the lovely lights above them.

Malfoy couldn't answer him, didn't truly know what to say. Instead, he found himself shaking and he thought quickly, fearfully. Was this was he was supposed to do with Hermione? Was this the masterpiece that he was supposed to create before he finally did kill her? He felt sick, nauseous. It wasn't the liquor, for he'd stopped blaming it. But whatever it was had been eating him alive. He felt it in his very core, in every aspect of his being. He was weak and he couldn't do it.

Rather, hoarse and horrified, he only croaked, "... should we take her out there now?" He wanted to get it over with, wanted the body out of sight. Yet Crabbe looked lost, glancing up at him quickly as if he had not been listening to a single word he had said.

"Out where?" Crabbe counteracted, all the more incredulous.

Malfoy felt uneasy. He couldn't stand on his feet anymore, but he couldn't move himself either. His ankle felt worse, his arm felt awful, but so did everything else in his body. Nothing seemed healthy, nothing seemed fit. He only felt damaged all over as if Crabbe had hit him with a million books, or he had landed on his arm a million times. He cleared his throat unsuccessfully, clarifying, "out back."

But Crabbe's smile doubled. "Not out back, Draco, downstairs!" He picked himself up, stretching out and running a hand over his face, tiredly. He smoothed out the front of his coat before stripping himself of it. Then he clamped a hand on Draco's injured shoulder, but Malfoy didn't even flinch. Wonkily, he made his way towards the stairs and place his exhausted foot on the first step. When he turned back to Draco, he shrugged his shoulders as if nothing had been much of a big deal at all. "The Cellar, Draco, that's where she goes for now." He cocked his chin towards the hallway, a grin spreading wildly.

The sting of the night pierced Draco hard in his stomach. The girl was to go downstairs; she was to be nothing more than Hermione's company. Faint, he almost didn't hear Crabbe as he begun to speak again, "I was hoping you could do the honors, seeing how Goyle's bloody useless and I had to carry it for miles. You know?" Draco didn't move, couldn't move, and Crabbe narrowed his eyes. "Is there a problem?" he asked, looking miffed. Thus, Malfoy stiffened. Then, dizzy, he shook his head. "Brilliant," Crabbe beamed, and within moments he'd gone.

Though Draco could only stand still. He watched the eyes of the girl on the floor, shut and bruised and punctured. And then Goyle made his way from the hall, his hand over his mouth and his eyes glazed over with what almost looked like tears. Draco didn't look up, he only stared at the girl as Goyle's voice said around him, "they said that was for you." He sounded sick when he'd said it, looking almost sympathetic and woeful in the process. Twinkling, his eyes watched Draco watch the body, but he only retched through the hands that clamped at his queasy mouth.

Noting that Draco was not going to say anything, Goyle nodded, scuffed towards the stairs in hopes he might make it up to his bed without being sick all over again. "Are you going to sleep downstairs again?" he asked Draco, looking over his shoulder and sounding muffled. Malfoy only shrugged, though he was sure, where ever he placed his body for the night, he would not sleep. "Right," Goyle nodded, and looked solemn in the process. He didn't inch forward; rather, he lifted a foot as if he were about to ascend, only to stop, pausing in the midsts of his movement to look at Draco for the second time. "Sorry about that..." he said quietly, and Draco could tell that he truly was. "I didn't know anything about it when we left..."

Malfoy blinked. He was certain he would have fainted, though reality seemed almost too harsh; it prevented him from escaping that easily. "Did Crabbe?"

"He may have mentioned something," muttered Goyle timidly, looking down at his feet. Freezing, Draco let Goyle stand still. The both of them didn't move, though their stillness lasted only for a moment. Goyle was restless, far too anxious to distance himself from the living room and the body alike. "I'll... see you in the morning, then?" he asked uncomfortably. Though Draco predictably did not answer, Goyle assumed that he would. "Well," he muttered again, "goodnight, then."

"Night," Draco answered back, and he heard the creek of Goyle's steps as he, too, vanished back up to the bedroom to sleep.

* * *

Hermione Granger heard a rustle and then the door whisked open at the top of the Cellar.

She looked up, horrified and unprepared, but found herself relaxing when she saw no one but Draco Malfoy, his body rigid and weak at the end near the small bit of light. She did not say a word to him, however; still bitter with him about the likes of their previous conversation, she remained still and huddled within herself, watching him silently as he extended a leg forward. Yet something about his shadow signified that he was not alone. Good arm raised, Malfoy's fingers were curled around the end of his wand, levitating something large and concealed in the thin air above him.

Draco pulled through the doorframe, allowed the Cellar to shut behind him, and led the floating object down the steps towards her. And she almost lost consciousness when she saw only the dark outline of it. Yet the thing only hung lifelessly near Draco's slumpy shoulder, and he was looking down at his feet, avoiding her by all costs. His face looked sullen, drained, and ghost-like. The dark circles under his eyes were obvious, as were the red state of his miserable front. Nonetheless, she allowed him to walk towards her, her curiosity growing, until he finally stopped, his back near the wall, and lowered the thing gently away from her, concealed in the shadows of he Cellar as if he were almost too scared to bring it forward.

"What's this then?" scoffed Hermione, peeking through the arches that she had been resting against.

Malfoy didn't answer her; instead, the moment he had set the lump down, he stumbled back, pressing his back against the wall. There was silence for only a split second, and Hermione then heard something that emitted from his end of the underground room. He buried his face in his hands, kept his fingers tangled in the blond locks of his unkempt hair, and sobbed. It was uncontrollable and unexpected. Hermione reeled back, stunned by the sudden break in the quietness that she had come to be so used to. And his body shook with every hiccup; chokingly, he breathed as if he had been strangled, cried as if he'd been injured, or killed, or worse.

The cause of his turmoil, however, came obviously to Hermione. It was the lump, the large thing that sat mysteriously in the shadows away from her. For a moment she remained staring at Malfoy, but then she was certain that she could not take any longer of not knowing. Thus, Hermione glanced back down at the dark thing on the floor, her curiosity growing unfathomably. She crept towards the thing, towards Malfoy, in silence, holding her breath as she searched the darkness. Using her hands to lead herself across the Cellar, Hermione instantly picked up the smell that the thing emitted. Rotting and unbearable, Hermione's head spun. She knew that smell...

"Fuck!" Hermione's scratchy yelp echoed through the Cellar in dismay. The horrible and mutilated body sat near Malfoy's bare feet and made Hermione loose her balance. She stumbled back, gripping the wall behind her before fumbling back onto the ground, scampering away like a crab backwards. And Malfoy's harsh sobs came as a bitter reality to her, made her feel numb and nonexistent. Pressing her back against the wall behind her, she tried not to move, breathing so spastically that the possibility of her heart ripping out of her chest seemed realistic.

Hermione forced her head into her raised knees, squeezing her eyes shut so tightly that she could see stars behind her closed lids. However, only a slight moment passed; after a few seconds she had to herself, Hermione felt something hit the end of her shoe. Slowly, she glanced up, scanning the darkness through her vision that was now blurred. But Draco had not moved. Rather, he looked exactly as he had since he had slumped to the ground. Thus, Hermione glanced downward in the dark, her eyes pinpointing the stone and her feet.

Then she saw a large scroll of parchment coiled around a light white writing quill. "What-" she started, but Malfoy's broken voice cut her off.

"D-Do whatever you w-want," he told her, though he didn't look up. "You're right; I can't do it. We've got to get out of here."

* * *

**Vonne: **If any of you were wondering as to why chapter seven was entitled 'Dead Hearts', I can provide another explanation for it. Because Hermione and Draco have now struck a deal, the worse case scenario is that they both end up dead. It's not a foreshadowing... necessarily. I did, however, attempt to make this connection rather obvious in the text, but just in case it was overlooked, I thought I'd post the reasoning below. Does it work? Tell me what you think! I'd love to hear how I'm doing with this. Sometimes I'm not too sure of myself. ;)


	8. Lose Your Soul

**Vonne:** I will get straight to it, this time!

**Sarah: **Thank you for your reviews! You review this morning reminded me about this chapter that I had completely finished and I definitely wanted to put it up for you. You're definitely keeping me motivated and I appreciate it so much. I hope you enjoy this chapter just as much as you've been enjoying the previous ones.

**TragicSlytherin: **Of course, of course. Draco needs his whiskey, as always. Nonetheless, I don't think he'll be drinking much in this chapter- instead, he'll be a bit too hungover to consider such consumption. However, as an alcoholic, Draco's bound to bounce right back... little bugger. And don't worry about not being able to give a 'proper review'. I'm glad you've decided to review in the first place. I appreciate it all, of course!

**Pearlrose33:** I am definitely going to answer you questions as to why Draco and Hermione can't just up and leave the Manor, now that the Death Eaters are gone. You've brought up a really good point, though, and I'm glad you addressed it. Funny enough, I'd already had this chapter written when I read your review, so you couldn't have asked that at a better time. Hopefully, this chapter will offer a bit more clarity with the issue. Thank you so much for your review- I'm so glad you're enjoying 'Cellar Door' so far!

**Forbiddenluv7: **Thank you, thank you! I'm really glad that you liked it. I write these chapters without a Beta reader and submit them once I've very, very sloppily skimmed everything over. It means so much that you like my writing. Thanks again!

**Isabella120: **Thank you so much! I hope you like this chapter... it's got a bit of a cliff-hanger attached to it. Be warned. ;)

**Ali-Lou: **Oh yay! I'm so happy that you got to read multiple chapters at once. That is the thing I hate most about reading work in progress fanfictions. I don't like waiting for updates- it can be murder. Anyway, your review was so wonderful and flattering to read. Thank you so much for the compliments. Everything is definitely going to start to pick up from here... and Draco's plan is going to be set into action. However, I think he's definitely overlooking something. Maybe the Death Eaters aren't as oblivious as he thinks?

**FamiliarTasteofPoison: **Thank you so much! It means so much to me that you're enjoying this fanfiction so far. AH! And you have no idea how much it means to hear that you think this is well-written. I love writing very much. The main reason I decided to write fanfiction was to get better with practice on characters that I already know and feel close to. It's wonderful when someone else feel the same way about these characters and also liked what I write about them. I hope you like this chapter! Thanks again!

Also, a very big thanks to: **Psychic City**, **MCLanna**, **LeCandeh, **and **LivelyMcBrighten**!

* * *

_"I get up in the morning to the beat of the drum, I get up to this feeling, keeps me on the run.  
I get up in the morning, put my dreams away. I get up, I get up, I get up again."_

**

* * *

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**Chapter Eight**  
**Lose Your Soul**

Head throbbing, Draco Malfoy awoke the next morning in a crumbled lump just between the space of the living room and the Cellar Door. He wondered how he had got there, swaying unsteadily before he decided that he didn't quite care about the specifics at all; he just wanted the room to stop its spinning. Staggering to his feet, Draco clamored against the wallpaper and stumbled down the hallway. He whisked open the door to the elegant bathroom, fumbled by the lovely glass sink, and knelt weakly on the marble floor beneath him. Without much warning, Malfoy's eyes burned and something churned deep in his gut. He felt woozy and pathetic, though he did not have much time to bother at any type of composure. Heaving desperately, he then released the contents of his stomach into the toilet bowl before him.

Thus he leaned forward, hugging the rim with shaking hands. He sighed, running his good arm through his hair and pressing his eyes shut. He thought of his stupidity and how, at this point, he would have learned that excessive drinking never agreed with him. He remembered almost nothing of the night, though he could not forget the body and the rotting stench that seemed to cling onto his body and his clothing. Wracking his brain, he found that he also remembered the letter and the way that Hermione had taken her time in writing it. He remembered how she'd rolled it back to him and how he'd scampered up off the floor towards the door in uncertain silence.

And then he'd stood at the end of the yard on the gorgeous white patio contemplating the letter, and Hermione, and the sleeping boys upstairs. He remembered the owl, even the hazy blur of her, and the way she'd taken off in the distance, Hermione's letter clenched tightly at its feet. The rest he'd pieced together by assumption. Though he was not exactly certain on how long he had stood there in the blackness, but one way or another, he had ended back into the Manor. It so seemed that he had made it about ten feet before he had lost his stature altogether. Either way, of course, it was not like any of it mattered now anymore. What was done, had been done and, drained, he exhaled on the incident, hoping instead that he could just fall asleep there on the chilly porcelain.

He felt like he was losing his soul. Slowly, but surely, it'd be gone forever.

"How'd she like it?" Draco Malfoy looked up, eyes watering, to find the tall and bloated figure of Vincent Crabbe standing before him. He looked chipper, almost jubilant, and an odd little smile graced his mouth at the sight of Draco's morning sickness. Always the sadist, Crabbe clamped a hand on Malfoy's hunched shoulder and cocked his chin out the door and through the hallway. "I'm assuming she appreciated the company, did she not?"

Draco's blood chilled. "Not," he muttered, and then bent forward, coughing before becoming sick all over again.

Crabbe's grin faded. "Fucking hell, Draco, how much did you drink last night?" Draco shrugged; he didn't remember. "But you were alone!" objected Crabbe, and Malfoy pressed his cheek to the rim. He ignored Crabbe as he leaned back against the counter of the sink, turning the knob to run the water and dive his thick hands in it. "Nevermind, Draco, just... keep it on the down low, would you?" He turned away from his reflection in the mirror, tossing Malfoy a serious glance that Draco caught even through the blurriness of his distorted vision.

"Why?" he slurred, feeling his face turn green.

Looking bewildered, Crabbe turned his body slightly, the water still running useless at his side. Forcefully, Crabbe lifted his leg and kicked at Draco's bent thigh lightly enough to imply that he had not meant to hurt him, but hard enough to suggest that he was intensely serious. "Why do you think?" he asked sternly. Malfoy didn't answer, only instead he could just manage to lift his head, offering Crabbe a blank expression that signified that he hadn't even thought about it at all. "The Death Eaters _are_ keeping an eye on us, you know, Draco." Crabbe paused, "at least somewhat."

"Eyes!" Draco yelped, jolting up. His face paled, loosing color, and Crabbe noticed only with a raise of his eyebrow.

"Of course," the other explained, looking almost suspiciously curious. "They've got _eyes_ like that loon Moody used to have around the house." He kept the faucet running, though Draco was certain that he did so only to muffle out the sounds of their conversation. "There's one by the gate, and one at the Dining room..." he stalled, spinning around to get a better glance down the long hallway before him. "One's at the living room, looking at the entrance to the Cellar, of course."

Malfoy's head felt as if it were about to explode. His heart beat faster in his chest. Eyes, the Death Eaters had eyes. They were watching almost every exit, every means of escape. He, Draco Malfoy, felt a rush of anxiety flood through his entire being and he hoped Crabbe didn't catch on. "Is that all?" he asked, trying to sound calm and collected. Mentally he cursed at himself; of course the Death Eaters had eyes around the Manor. He only wished he had realized it before.

"Those are the three," Crabbe nodded, "but one thing goes wrong and the Death Eaters come running. Draco," Crabbe continued, "you need to keep it together."

A rush of slight relief came to Draco; Crabbe had said it himself- one wrong move and the Death Eaters would come running. So he was in the clear, at least so far. One way of another, they had not caught him sending off Hermione's letter in the late night last night. He wondered if they'd placed their 'eyes' by the yard as well, then figured he'd look when he had the chance. Nonetheless, he glanced back up at Crabbe and slumped back down into the toilet seat, nodding graciously before closing his eyes. He heard Crabbe snap off the running water, turning back to his reflection and run his own fingers through his short, buzzed hair.

Crabbe's voice said, "if one of us fucks up, we all fuck up," and he looked increasingly concerned as the seconds passed him by. Crabbe bent his body backwards, positioning himself against the bathroom wall after drying his hands off on the towels that were really only meant for display. "You know what I mean?" Draco nodded, and Crabbe said, "yes?" His face grew red and, though he looked desperate and concerned, his aggravation was blatantly obvious. "What does that mean, Draco? You can't just _nod._ Does that mean 'yes', you understand?"

Malfoy lifted his hand, placed it over his head and spat conclusively into the toilet. "Yes," he moaned defeatedly, "I understand, Crabbe." Then, flopping towards the lid, Draco brought the thing down and placed his head upon it, buzzing. "Fuck," he coughed, and Crabbe ruffled his blond hair, making Draco wince.

"Look sharp, Draco," he told him, leaning down to grab a towel from underneath the cabinets. He whisked out an embroidered washcloth and shoved it into the mess of Draco's face, forcefully dabbing away the spills at his mouth. Had Narcissa Malfoy known that such a luxurious towel were being used to clean up such messes, she would have flipped. Malfoy wondered if such a tiny thing would have even mattered to her anymore, now that the world was about to change. "Clean up, get sorted," Crabbe instructed. "You do want to check up on Granger, don't you?"

"Check up on-" Draco started, but Crabbe cut him off.

"You know," he beamed, "do what you do best. I saw what you did with the wound I cast on her torso and I must say, nice touch!" Malfoy blinked, feeling faint, but Crabbe did not seem to notice much about the uneasy state to the boy. "Healing her gives her false hope, makes room for improvement on our part." Crabbe flexed his fingers and Draco heard them crack. "That way she gets to suffer new on a daily basis." He lifted his brow, bent down low to awkwardly to help Malfoy to his feet.

The blond allowed himself to be lifted, using the edge of the towel rack to support himself. Still, he managed to fall slightly into Crabbe's meaty exterior, feeling inadequate as Crabbe chuckled at his misstep. Nonetheless, he remained overjoyed at the notion of Draco's idea involving Hermione. His sparkling eyes watched Malfoy collect himself once again, but he did not bother pushing him away when he was forced to remain Draco's kickstand. "Err-" Malfoy choked, "right."

"Got to admit, though, I'm a bit jealous I didn't come up with that one by myself!" Crabbe's grin doubled and Draco tried to walk without him, though only managed to collect several steps before falling back into his side again. Crabbe didn't even huff. Only, he directed Draco to the couch in the living room, let him collapse upon the collective cushions of it, and lean back. "Don't you think, Goyle?" Crabbe asked, and Draco peered into the room carefully; if Goyle had been in the room, he had definitely not noticed.

"Don't I think what?" Goyle asked, and Draco finally spotted him. Sitting at the long couch opposite him, Goyle looked up from his cup of steaming hot tea. He looked exhausted in his pyjamas, and around his eyes, he matched Draco's dark circles. "Oh," murmured Goyle when he looked up at the blond as well. There was a look of sadness behind his eyes, but he seemed almost overtaken by nervousness, as if he too had just learned that his every move was being watched. "Hello, Draco."

Malfoy grabbed for a pillow on the couch, whisking it over his face. "Hello, Goyle," he asked, and couldn't help the bitterness that overtook his tone. In his anger, he remembered the way Goyle had left him to tend to the dirty work of the body during the night prior. And despite the understanding that Malfoy had always felt towards Goyle, he still managed to sound slightly cold when he asked sarcastically, "sleep soundly last night?"

Goyle opened his mouth before shutting it, struck. He watched Draco unsteadily before falling back down into the surface of his tea, silent once more. "Just rest for a while, Draco," Crabbe permitted, pulling the pillow away from Malfoy's eyes and watching as his blond hair flew responsively about at his forehead. "You too, Goyle." Then he bent low, made a quick grab for his discarded and bulky black coat that hung on the side of the living room love seat. "I'm going out."

"Out?" Draco asked, watching Crabbe fiddle with his coat's collar. He lifted himself up slightly, feeling woozy and he grabbed the headboard to still himself. "What do you mean 'out'?"

Crabbe's brow furrowed. "Out, out," he said, dismissively. "I'll be back sometime later tonight."

Clawing for further support, Malfoy leaned away from the couch, stumbled once he found his footing, and remained in the middle of the living room as Crabbe's figure shrunk with distance. "Crabbe!" Draco shouted out to him sternly, though his voice was dry and unconvincing, "you can't just... just leave." He thought of all the possible places that Crabbe could be headed off to, felt ill at the strange look in his mate's twinkling eyes. And he thought about how he had been so nice to him over the past couple of days, wondering with concern if it had truly been all part of an act.

Fear stuck him uneasily and he waited for an answer. Crabbe, on the other hand, only simply lifted his broad shoulders. "Calm down, Draco," he stated, "sit. Rest. I'm just going to get food," he sent Goyle an understanding look, "alcohol. If you haven't noticed, we're running out of supplies."

Draco breathed, watching him curiously. He opened his mouth to object, but only stumbled back down to the couch in response, at a slight loss. Nonetheless, Crabbe smiled and tossed his eyes as if Draco's outburst had been crazy. Then, without another word, he paced towards the door, extending five chubby fingers to open it before slamming it shut once more. They heard his footsteps embark on his way from the Manor, out of the boundaries that the Death Eaters had made impossible to Aparate from. Eventually, Draco watched him disappear into the trees, where, after a sufficient amount of walking, he would finally vanish.

Then he sunk low, staring at the contents of the living room, almost completely stuck within himself. He felt a shakiness at the thought of being watched, though knew that somewhere in his head, he had expected such news. It would only make the deal he had struck with Hermione that much more difficult. Up and leaving the Manor through the front door was not going to be a possibility. He felt pathetic, thinking that Granger's bloody Potter would have to assist them out in the end. However, he kept his grievances to himself, looking almost pensive in front of Gregory Goyle, who had not taken his eyes off of his tea cup since he had cast them there.

"You know they're watching us," Goyle whispered and Draco looked up. Goyle's face was riddled with fear, overtaken by the notion that someone unseen was breathing down his very back. "They told me and Crabbe last night." He lowered his voice even more so then, glancing at his tea cup. "They can Aparate here, but we can't... dunno h-how in the world they did it. Crabbe suggested they put some kind of potion in our drinks."

Feeling a bit fuzzy, Draco regretted ever having snapped at Goyle. He loosened his posture, fiddled with his fingers, and said timidly, "they didn't put anything in our drinks, Goyle." He wanted to tell him not to listen to a word Crabbe said anymore, but instantly took it back. If anyone knew first-hand what the Death Eaters were doing, it was more than likely Crabbe than any of them.

"... If we fuck up-" Goyle started, but Draco interrupted him.

"We're not going to 'fuck' up," he sighed, looking up. Draco watched Goyle try and avoid that tea that he'd guessed Crabbe had prepared for him earlier that morning. It looked as if he hadn't touched it. Sighing, Malfoy lifted his hand, grabbed the handle of the teacup, and lifted an eyebrow. For good measure, he tilted the teacup to his lips and sipped at it. Goyle watched him intently, as if waiting for him to keel over, and when Draco came up clean, he looked only a bit more relaxed.

Still, however, he looked a bit miffed when he said cautiously to Draco, "you shouldn't have done that."

Awkwardly, Draco shifted his feet. He looked down at his fingers. "It wasn't going to hurt me," he said.

"Still," Goyle quietly counteracted, and then Draco only leaned back against the headboard.

He stared for a long time at the ceiling above his head, wondering about the other hexes the Death Eaters may have cast upon the house without his knowledge. Nonetheless, no matter how hungover he felt, he still could not rid himself of that same sick feeling he'd had before. Either way, as alone as they thought they had been, they were wrong. For Goyle's sake, Draco tried to appear relaxed, casual, as Crabbe had instructed. He didn't know when the last time he had taken orders from Crabbe was, but he bit his lip and even managed to agree with him on this one. Goyle's discomfort practically oozed out of every pore on his body. He practically basked it it all.

Malfoy exhaled again and let his eyes shut, breathing up into the stale air of the living room. He saw the spark of the dangling lights behind the lids of his eyes and, despite his laid-back demeanor, inside Draco was panicking. Though, he managed to listen to the heavy breaths of Goyle across from him, finding a steady state in the monotony of it all. When Goyle's hard breaths stopped, however, and his shaky voice rung out, Draco's eyes fluttered once again open. "Are you going to go down there?" Goyle asked, looking at the cooling cup of tea.

"Down where?" Malfoy asked, watching the hint of anxiety cross Goyle's morbid complexion.

He moved the silver tupperware around the glass with his finger, coaxing it around in a circle magically. "To see Granger, like Crabbe said."

Draco shifted in his spot. He looked down. "I dunno," he said, jumbled. "I suppose." It was something that the Death Eater version of Draco would have agreed to, if he were in the right state of mind. Yet Draco was not a Death Eater, not considering the circumstances, of course. And, despite voicing a careless opinion on the subject matter, Draco's insides churned. He'd 'supposed' so, as if it were no big deal, going down to hex and torture the girl they'd been keeping in their underground Cellar for almost a full week. Crabbe would have been proud to hear the maliciousness behind Draco's bland voice, but Goyle only looked uneasy.

The bigger of the two boys bent forward, picked up a spoonful of glistening white sugar, and tossed the lump into the tea that he had no real plans of drinking. "Do you have any plans?"

"What do you mean, 'plans'?" Draco asked, following Goyle's every hand movement. His chubby fingers gripped the end of his silver spoon tightly as he pushed another large scoop into his teacup.

Goyle dove in for a third lump. "I dunno," he said meakly, "Crabbe always has plans when he goes down to see her. He always knows what he's going to do."

"Ah," Draco mused gently. He could sense the nervousness overwhelm Goyle. Still, he made a point to sound collected. Nonetheless, when he asked Goyle, "do you ever have plans?", he found himself immensely curious. For someone so horrified about the whole ordeal, Draco wondered if Goyle had been having difficulty with handling Hermione Granger as well. Despite it all, he hoped that Goyle would tell him, 'yes', he did have the same problem that Draco Malfoy had been having. He waited for Goyle to confirm, to say he'd hexed her without any success and that it had been embarrassing and disappointing and terrifying all at once.

But Goyle only said, "no, I don't have any plans, not really at least. Crabbe... tells me what to do. And I just do it."

Feeling weak, defenseless, and pathetic, Draco slumped back into his seat. Despite Goyle's fear, he'd still managed to hex Hermione under Crabbe's orders, no matter how Unforgivable. It meant that, though Goyle still felt uncertain about it, his desire to please Crabbe and the Death Eaters greatly outshone his desire to run and hide. Stirring the sugar into his tea, Goyle glanced up at Draco. "Well," Malfoy started again, "do you mind doing it... going to the Cellar, I mean."

"I don't like it," Goyle said, looking morose at the fact that he had just admitted it out loud. "But I don't dislike it, either." His shoulders gave a quick shudder. "Is that a bad thing, do you think?"

Draco shook his head, though his heart sunk bitterly in his chest. In the eyes of the Death Eaters, Goyle's semi-sadism was definitely not a bad thing. And Draco found himself even growing a bit jealous, wishing at least somewhat that he'd possessed the will to make his father happy, to carry out Voldemort's wishes. However, the realization that Goyle had become, if anything, slightly corrupted, only made Draco feel that much more distant- from Goyle and from the rest of them.

"I don't think it's a bad thing." Draco lied breathlessly, and Goyle's expression slackened.

"You don't?" he asked, looking slightly taken back, and a bit more relieved. Draco's support, though fabricated, seemed to sit easily with him. And when Malfoy shook his head again, Goyle's tense posture flattened. "Well," he said, breathing out restlessly, "I just hope that I'm doing alright in the Death Eater's eyes. I mean, I hope I'm doing what they want. Maybe," he said, looking up carefully, "one of these days we'll join their ranks. You know... you, me, Crabbe..." There was a flash of hope in his eyes. He looked ready, eager, and Draco felt that much more of an outlier. Even Goyle had more anticipation than he did; Draco loathed himself for it.

"Yeah," Malfoy said anyways, "one of these days-"

"Crabbe thinks its going to be soon," Goyle said, whispering again. "He said, once Potter dies..." he trailed off, looking both fearful and anxious. He wanted it so bad, and did not want it at all at the same time. Yet the confusion of Goyle's state only made Draco still, watching him as if trying to pin point his own faults. "Do you think so, Draco?" he asked again, looking hopeful.

"I think so," Draco responded, feeling sick. He really did not know what to think, however. Had the Death Eaters found out that he had sent Hermione's letter to Potter, there would not be much promotion in the matter of Draco Malfoy. He wondered how far he'd be demoted. Wondered if they'd let him live, or make him suffer. Nonetheless, Goyle seemed all the more eager once Draco had confirmed it; reaching towards his tea, he scooped up the glass and poured the hot liquid down his throat.

Goyle shifted slightly, made a slightly overjoyed face, and glanced down. He gave a timid little chuckle, however, and then turned back to look Draco in the eyes. "I'm sorry about last night," he muttered, looking increasingly sheepish, as if the previous conversation had not just happened. Instead, he appeared to curl back into himself, submissive at the memory of the decaying flesh that he had carried miles back to the Manor. "I really didn't know about it..." he said quietly. "And I would have helped you carry it to the Cellar, but-"

Cutting him off, Draco watched the tormented expression in Goyle's gaze. "Don't worry about it," he said, and then slumped back down. "It's been taken care of."

"I'm going to get used to that kind of stuff," he told Draco, trying to further explain himself. "The bodies, I mean... the death stuff. I'll get used to it, like you and Crabbe." He sounded ashamned when he'd said it, growing red at the fact that he had not yet gotten over the notion of it all. Dead, decaying corpses infiltrated Draco's hazy mind and he tried unsuccessfully to shake them from his thoughts. He wondered how he had managed to pull off the impression that he had gotten used to the stuff because, despite Goyle's assumption, he didn't think he ever would.

However, a new sound interrupted the boy's conversation. From the lower level of the grand Manor, a blood curling scream shot out from the depts of the Cellar and Goyle's body shook. The two glanced down the hallway, feeling uneasy underneath all that tension. And Goyle glanced back at Draco, blood drained from his face, to chew on his lower lip as if suggesting that now might be the time for Draco to do what Crabbe had suggested the moment he'd left. He didn't voice it, however, didn't say a single word. Yet Draco knew too well the implications that he was gesturing towards him. And groggily, he picked himself up, limping towards the Cellar door in a hazy motion that left Goyle a bit humiliated for not taking the opportunity himself.

With the tea cup shaking in his grip, Goyle took a slight stand to watch Malfoy go. Nonetheless, he stood in silence to see the blond's wobbling body advance towards the door, pull it open, and lock it hastily behind him.

* * *

Hermione Granger was screaming.

It was a frantic and horrified scream, one that made Draco stumble on his descent down the steps, but her voice echoed off the stone walls of the Cellar and came back to him hoarsely. And Draco gripped the end of his wand, held it out before his chest as he plummeted into it. And there she was against the wall, eyes wide down at her leg, which caught the minute light just in time to reveal a rather large gash at the surface of it. He could see the streak of white bone, the way in which the blood covered its shiny surface, and watched the significant rolling of her eyes as she almost succumbed to unconsciousness once again.

She appeared as if she had just woken up; sleep crusted around the corner of her eyes and her hair looked frazzled in the distance. Though her back was pressed up against the wall, she seemed to have only just scurried there, legs crooked out before her in a deranged position that left her almost looking crippled. The makeup that she had been wearing for days had been dripping down her visage, circling underneath her eyelids and making her look almost ghost-like. Yet her hands clamored towards the injury, as if attempting to hold it closed with her fingers, and when she saw Draco advance towards her, she muttered in between sobs, "f-fix... it... p-please!"

So Draco did as he was told, kneeling before Hermione and ignoring that spare shadow in the background that he knew to be the deceased Muggle girl. Rather, he turned his attention to the skinny leg of Hermione Granger, wrapping his own fingers around it. She hissed at his touch, wincing at the harsh coldness of his hands, and watched him draw back, as if slightly offended, before trying for it again. He pulled out his wand again and hovered it over the thing, drawing in breath before repeating the spell that he had learned from Severus Snape that sounded almost oddly like a song. When he'd finished, he slumped down too, pressing his knees to the stone to hear only the muffled sound of Hermione's fading tears. She gawked at her reformed leg, ran a quivering hand through her hair, and then leaned back, her posterior side against the stone, as well.

Her breathing uneasy, Hermione glanced down at her feet. She didn't say a word, but her silence didn't bother Draco. His head was spinning too much, reeling from the sight of a limb that he had almost come to expect being tattered. Nonetheless, he smoothed his own hair back too, careless as it only just flopped back into place across his clammy forehead. He didn't quite mind the silence, but when Hermione drew in her shaky breaths, he knew that she was about to say something.

"Sorry I screamed," she said in a low and solemn tone.

Malfoy lifted up his shoulders, staring at his own bare feet. He wondered when the last time he'd worn shoes had been. "They like it when you scream," he told her, and Hermione bit her lip.

Shaking her head, Hermione strove to explain herself. "I woke up and saw her," she said, cocking her head towards the rotting corpse in the corner. Wordless, she opened her mouth before closing again and starting over. "Then I s-saw my leg and..." she stopped, thinking it out before continuing, "I thought I'd end up just like her." Hermione shook her head; her long, bushy hair fell over one shoulder and she shuffled, shifting her weight forward before bringing her knees up to her chest closely. Into her scrunched-up lap, she said, "its stupid, I know..."

"It's not stupid," Draco counteracted, but his voice was not soft. Rather, her spoke in a voice that was factual, bitter in the way that he still was not fond of her. "It's the truth."

"_If_ we don't get out of here, it's the truth," Hermione retaliated, her eyes snapping back towards him and Draco could tell that she didn't quite like him either. Nonetheless, she retracted, becoming more timid as she curled up in a looser ball so that she could garner for herself a better look at Draco's face. It took her a moment to speak, but when she did, it was in a slow and desperate whisper. "Did you send my letter out?" she asked.

Malfoy felt a rush of anxiety. "Yes," he hissed, slightly more demeaning than he'd meant for it to. "I sent it."

Then an entirely newfound bout of silence hit the two of them. It seemed that neither one wanted to speak or, at least, Draco was certain that he did not want to. And going back upstairs, he knew, was not an option. It was not, of course, that he was afraid of Goyle; the boy had perhaps been just as terrified about the situation as Draco was. Yet the notion of their conversation had left him feeling light-headed and uneasy. The more time Goyle had spent within the walls of the Manor, the more he'd started to think like Vincent Crabbe... or at least, had pretended to. Only a hint of secrecy rest in Goyle's eyes and Malfoy could see it; he wondered if, in time, Goyle would loose himself too.

So then, he wondered, who did that make him closest to? Because it definitely was not any of the Death Eaters or Crabbe. And since Goyle had slipped then maybe it was not him either. Draco's gray eyes slid like glaciers across the canvas of the Cellar, falling on the tucked away Hermione as she stared off into the distance of stone-covered space before her. They were, in a way, bother trapped- though she was more physically than he; they both wanted out. Bitterly, Malfoy cursed himself for thinking that they had such a connection, but he could not deny something about it all. They _were_ both down in the Cellar, they _were_ both waiting for some stupid, bloody letter...

And maybe Hermione was the closest thing he felt to, and that made him angry. He didn't want to be close with Hermione Granger, didn't want to have anything in common with her. But it had happened and it was beyond his control; he'd needed to get out, she'd needed to get out. In retrospective, it had just worked.

"You'll get used to it, you know," Hermione said, breaking the silence so timidly that Draco was not even sure she had actually opted to speak. However, when he lifted his head, he could see the movement in her lips. She was not staring at him, but instead at the floor underneath her feet. "It's not so bad."

Draco huffed, tossing his eyes to the side and feeling humiliated. Hermione could see right through him and that made him nervous. He wished she did not see the desperation behind his every action, wished she could not tell that his heart beat faster whenever he thought about death and murder and torture. She didn't look at him with a condescending stare, however; instead, she made a last attempt at kindness. Nonetheless, he did not drop his hardened demeanor. "What's not so bad?" he asked her, giving her a cold glance in response. "Being on bloody _Potter's_ side of the War?"

"No," Hermione shook her head, "being a good person."

Giving up, Draco pressed his head deeper into the bulk of his knees. "All I wanted to do was what I'd been destined to do," he told her and instantly, he wished he hadn't. Cursing himself, he wondered why it had been so relaxed at spitting the confession out to her. He'd never said such a thing out loud to anyone before.

"How do you know this is what you're destined to do, Malfoy?" Hermione asked him, putting her chin on her own knees and glancing at him from the side. She looked cold and miserable, and she smelt like the corpse in the corner, rotting as if she'd needed a shower.

Draco lifted his head, staring at Hermione wonkily, as if she'd just shouted a collection of unnecessary curses at him. She only watched him stare at her, his features cold and icy. And then he said, "I'm not having this conversation with you, Granger," he spat.

"Why not?" Hermione asked, challenging him with a lift of her thin shoulders. When Draco didn't answer her back, she said, "right, well, you've healed me, haven't you? Go back upstairs, then. Take a nap, hang out with your Death Eater friends." Her voice then slipped into a low whisper, "_drink_ some more," she added, and looked almost instantly sorry after she'd said it.

Malfoy's face contorted. He'd definitely heard her latest comment, but instead he chose not to say anything about it. Only, observing her quietly, he wondered when she'd noticed he'd had any alcohol at all. "Thanks for the _advice_, Granger, but if you must know, I _can't_ go upstairs when I'm supposed to be torturing you."

Lifting her head up even higher, Hermione made a face. "So, what?" she asked him, looking incredulous, "you're going to just sit here, then?"

"I was thinking about it, yeah," Draco concluded, pressing the crown on his blond hair back against the stone for the second time. He shut the lids of his eyes, knowing that Hermione was still staring back at him.

"You're impossible," he heard her voice rasp.

"And _you're_ a hostage," Draco counteracted. He kept his eyes shut. "You're not supposed to be sassy with me, Granger."

Snorting, Hermione turned her head. "Like you can do anything about it," she murmured, and Malfoy's eyes snapped open again.

Bloodshot, he stared at her, wondering when she had grown something of a back-bone. And she was right, he knew; there wasn't really anything he could, or _would, _do about her attitude. His wracked his mind for a list of schoolyard hexes that he could curse her with, remembering the time when he'd grown her teeth from her mouth at an abnormally large rate. He wondered if he'd still had it in him, wondered if growing her teeth would even been that much of a stretch. He thought quickly, deciding that he could do it... if he wanted. However, something stopped him from doing any sort of damage towards her at all. It wasn't that he liked her, rather, just felt something of sympathy.

Still, he felt heated, angry at her for even bothering to speak to him in such a way. He stopped dead in his tracks, waiting for Hermione to take it back, like he had always figured she would. Yet Draco seemed oblivious, unaware at how she could sit there and watch him so carelessly. And he saw the dried blood on her face, the way that the spit cracked at the side of her dried lips. Perhaps she was tired of it all, too, tired of Draco Malfoy and his snarky comments. But Draco didn't care, saw her bitterness as undeserved. She had to be joking. After all he'd done.

"Way to sound so ungrateful, Granger," Malfoy hissed, and with that, staggered to his feet as if he didn't care less about going upstairs anymore and blowing his cover.

_"Ungrateful?" _Hermione yelled, watching Draco support himself against the wall. "Ungrateful?" She looked up at Draco, her eyes narrowed into two small slits. "What the bloody hell should I be grateful for, Malfoy? This _obviously_ isn't hospitable in the least!"

Draco lowered his voice to a raspy whisper, so that their argument would not be heard from upstairs. Hunching down towards her, Draco made a face. "Well, excuse me, Granger, if I haven't been able to grant your wish for a five star hotel!"

Hermione struggled to get to her feet, but remained unsuccessful. Nonetheless, she sat on the ground, flimsy with her chin upwards, lashing out at him in an yell that was equally as hushed. "I'm not asking for a hotel, Malfoy, you prat!" she bellowed. "But not once have I had anything to eat!" her eyes watered as she'd said it, tears forming at the very corners. "I reek!" Kicking the ground harshly, Hermione didn't even yelp when her toe began to form around a pool of her own trickling blood. "I'm sleeping on a stone floor! And you expect me to be _grateful?"_

"In case you haven't forgotten, in the past two days I've not once come down here to hex you!" Draco retorted harshly, spitting his retaliation as if he'd wanted nothing more than to curse the living daylights out of her. He lashed his tongue, bending down so close to her face that he could feel her rattled breaths. "I sent out your bloody letter, didn't I? Have you forgotten that I've healed you _twice?_" he gestured down to her torso and watched her face soften with realization. "Not _once_ have I heard even the slightest bit of gratitude from you, so don't you dare speak to _me_ about something that is merely an," he waited a while to garner for himself the correct word. Once he'd found it, he'd spat, "_inconvenience_."

Hermione stared up at him, his breathing making his chest pant up and down. He'd lost hold of his wand, making it shake before the ground as if he were going to drop it there. He didn't move, however. Only, he watched her so intently as if he couldn't contain himself, his eyes watering in an odd way that made Hermione curious, despite feeling so guilty. And she shook herself, quivering in the realization that, perhaps, she had said something horrible herself, something that she wished she now could take back. In reality, she hadn't meant to sound pompous and uncaring, but Malfoy's point had struck her rather suddenly and, whirling, she thought that, perhaps, he was right.

"Malfoy..." Hermione started, but Draco's head dropped. He looked to have snapped out of whatever angry trance he had been in and only lowered himself to kneel in front of her.

"Shut up, Granger," he told her, and Hermione, for a moment, held her tongue.

"Malfoy," she started again, but his pale white fingers flew to the sleeve of her jacket and she watched him intently. "I didn't mean-"

Draco shot her a warning glance, and Hermione stopped. He was paying her no attention, anyway. Instead, he tightened his grip on the fabric of her sleeve and tugged, ripping the thing hastily. When he'd finished, he drew away a large portion of her clothing, staring at it momentarily before curling it into his fist as if he intended on placing it somewhere else later in the afternoon.

Then, once he'd collected the piece of her freshly torn jacket, he staggered back away from her. But Hermione glanced up, her heart pounding faster, as she brought herself to ask him with a loud sniffle, "what was that for?"

Whirling around, Draco showed her the fistful of fabric he'd just torn from Hermione's clothing. "You want something to show Potter that we really have you down here, don't you?" he jeered snappingly. Hermione stayed silent, thinking it slightly clever that Draco had decided to take a snippet of her clothing to show Harry once he'd found him that she was definitely where she'd told him she'd be. At the lack of an answer, Draco grunted, turning back around again with a limp.

She watched him wobble up the stairs, using the stone walls for support, and when he'd finally made it to the top, she tried once more to make any sort of contact with him. "Malfoy," she said, eyes stinging from the makeup that had blended in with the tears that now dripped mercilessly from her very eyes. "Please, a-about before... I-"

"Save it, Granger," the blond seethed, and with that, he slammed the door.

And at the other end, he walked, much more forcefully than he had before, despite the injury at his ankle. Furious, he slammed his good foot into the wall, sighing heavily before retreating to the living room and pressing his back against the fainting chair as he slumped to the floor. Nonetheless, he cocked his legs out in front of him and held his breath to relax, sloping down against the back of the couch and listening to the soft breaths that echoed from behind it.

Goyle. Draco had almost forgotten about him. In the reflection of the mirror before his torso, Draco could see the larger boy's thick outline, slumped against the thing. The mirror showed his hand, curled at the fingertips, as it had been caught half-way between reaching out for another glass of the wine he'd rest on the coffee table before him. Yet the silent snores of Gregory Goyle signified that he had lost the battle in reaching for another sip. Out cold, the sleeping boy didn't even notice Draco as he sat just inches behind him.

Draco slipped a hand up to the black coat he'd left sitting across the back of the thing, allowed it to fumble into his lap openly as he deposited the bulk of Hermione's jacket into the nearest pocket. He scanned the scene, moaning inwardly to himself as he realized that sleeping was something he desired more than anything. Thus, he clamored to his feet, bracing himself for the pain of walking as he shuffled towards the grand staircase that spiraled out before him. Yet he used the railing to ascend to the top, breathing a sigh of relief once he'd found he'd made it, and tumbling into his bedroom almost raggedly in the process.

He stared at the sight of his bed, still unmade from the lack of effort he'd put into it. Crumbling downward, Malfoy placed his head into the pillow, ignoring the spinning sensation of his persistent hangover. However, he was not graced with any time to relax. A swooshing sound filled his ears and Draco's eyes snapped open. Reeling, he lifted himself half way to glance around, hearing something almost hollow-sounding coming from the window that sat the farthest from his bed.

Staggering, Draco pulled himself from the mattress, wobbling towards the window uneasily. And then Draco saw the bird through the window outside. Perched, the lovely animal was sitting on the marble railing near the fountain in the backyard, a small sheet of paper tucked into its hardened beak. He wasn't exactly sure how long the thing had been sitting there, but Malfoy felt a rush of anxiety as he prayed that it had not been spotted. And, whirling, he spun from the windowsill, his hands working feverishly at his sweats to pull them off. He almost tripped as he whipped open the dresser, yanking out a pair of nice black trousers and shoving his legs into them forcefully. In a hurry, he pulled the white sleep shirt from his body, slipping on a long-sleeved black one as a replacement. Panting, he reached towards his discarded coat, pulling it around his arm as he darted back out the door, back down the stairs, and across the blackened living room as if his life depended on it. Thus, stumbling towards the back porch in secrecy, Draco found himself impossibly grateful for the fact that Goyle had passed out on the emerald fainting couch.

Nonetheless, he was careful when he shut the glass slider behind him, stepping out into the cold of the night. He watched the orange sky above him, searching for the owl that he was certain he had seen. There came a little hoot and Draco almost lost his balance. There it was, calm and collected. But Draco only stared down at the bird down with fuzzy confusion. Hermione's idea had worked- it had actually worked. He could tell by the sight of the sloppy hand writing that the letter had come from Harry Potter himself. And the bird only glanced up at him wearily, its eyes wide and patient as it allowed Draco to simply stand in front of it, shoulders slumped and mouth slightly opened. He couldn't believe it, didn't know what to think about the sight of the bird, and the letter, and the mere notion that Harry Potter had decided to send him something back. But fear gripped him, unaware of whether or not the thing had been a set-up, a trap. And, going white, Malfoy couldn't stop the shakes that made his body weak.

Yet nonetheless, Malfoy lunged towards it, scooping the paper from the owl's mouth and collecting it within his fingertips. The moment that the blond had made contact, the owl flew off again, taking no time in spreading its wings and scooting off into the fading afternoon in silence. And Draco watched it go, oblivious until he glanced back down to the letter in his hands, feeling sick and uneasy all at the same time. He drew in a breath, feeling the piece of Hermione's jacket in the pocket of his coat.

And, breathing in, he started into it, because it was now or never, and Draco knew that he did not have much time to consider the possibilities otherwise. Shaking, he pulled open the front of the folded parchment, staring down at the sheet as he held his inconsistent breath. However, once he'd had the thing opened, he was surprised to find that there was not an entire novel printed on the surface of it. Instead, Harry Potter had only scribbled a set of eleven blunt words, presumably directed at him.

It read: _"Meet me in the clearing in the woods. I'll be waiting." _And that was all.

A rush of unneeded anxiety flooded over him and Draco spun around, staring into the darkened living room with the letter lifelessly at his side. He'd not a long time until Crabbe would be heading back, until the questions would start as to where Draco was heading off to. And the hallway to the front door of the Manor seemed to stretch outwards forever, making the trip impossible, yet all the more necessary.

Glancing down, Draco considered the letter again. Then he set out towards the end of his backyard.

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**Vonne: **I think this is a good enough place to leave this at. Anyway, merry Christmas. I might be able to squeeze in one more chapter before the holidays, but it all depends on the feedback. Sorry! Please don't hate me for holding my work hostage! :( I do just like the feeling of knowing that people are reading. Thank you all so much! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	9. Forever Towards Dark

**Vonne: **I'm running out of Dead Man's Bones song titles, and there are plenty of chapters left in this story to take up. Thus, with only a couple more songs left on the DMB track list, I've decided to take quotes from their songs and use them as chapter titles. Just a side note, of course, thank you!

I don't have much time to answer everyone back today, but I can give you all a very big thank you! Thanks for all the reviews I've collected over my holiday break! I hope you enjoy this chapter:**Carl**,**McLanna**, **LivelyMcBrighten**, **Psychic City**, **LE Candeh**, **TragicSlytherin**, **VikkiSuLuvsYew**, **CoreyFitzwilliam**, **Lovers'Lies**, **Pearlrose33**, **Sarah**, and **Isabella120**!

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"And forever, towards dark, we'll rise."

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**Chapter Nine  
Forever Towards Dark  
**

Draco stepped into the clearing slowly, his pale face striking out vibrantly in the dreary wood that he'd stood in. Above him, the sky was almost shielded by the limbs of the branches that stretched out and away into the air, but Draco could tell that darkness was not far from arriving on the scene with him. And there was not a sound, nothing; only Malfoy and his breathing, breaths that were a bit worn from his slow hurry and the pain that had caught up with him in his ankle and his shoulder alike. But was no sight of Potter. Alone and feeling duped, Draco watched the empty brush with the letter dumbly in the fingers of his loosening grip. Wind whooshed carelessly around him. Malfoy couldn't believe it.

He hated that prick Potter, hated him for making him show up expecting help in his predicament. Perhaps he had not taken the letter seriously as Hermione had thought he would, perhaps he had not even received it. Feeling dizzy, Draco Malfoy considered the possibility that the letter he'd sent out the night prior had fallen into the wrong hands. A cold chill ran up Draco's newly slouched spine. What if, somehow it had fallen into the hands of the Death Eaters. He thought of his aunt Bellatrix, thought of all the things she would do to him, had she found out about the letter, and he felt faint. He wondered if his arrival in the clearing had been only a set-up, and now he was clear of it. This was it; the beginning of his plans with Hermione had been shut down before they'd even started. They knew, and Draco Malfoy... he was going to die.

A hollow breath escaped Draco's raspy throat and, shaking, he took one more, conclusive step into the clearing. "H-Hello?" he breathed out, sounding much more broken than he had ever intended. "P-Potter?"

A single sound snapped from behind him- a twig or something broke in two. Draco whirled around, his heart beating rapidly. Then he heard the slow inhaling that sounded out around him, breathing that he was certain were not his own. He could tell by the way he held his, by the way a tiny little whimper sounded from his own throat while the rest of them kept on coming. And he whirled around in his despair, breathing so hard that he could see the white puff of it hovering before his mouth in the cold outside.

Then the crunching sound of leaves came to Draco's ears, and Malfoy all but fainted. He felt the blood rush out of his face, felt the sudden urge to curl up in a ball and wrap his arms around his head in preparation for an attack that he was certain was coming. It was the Death Eaters, he'd assumed, out to get him. They'd seen the bird, seen his letter, and planned to lure him to the clearing in the orange-colored glow of the night. He was going to get it, now. He was going to suffer and then finally, when he couldn't suffer anymore, they'd kill him. At least then, he'd be grateful for it to all be over. Yet, standing in the middle of the clearing, Draco could only speculate. Nothing came- no hexes, no spells, or voices. Only, the strange silence greeted him unpleasantly, as if taunting him, making him wait for some sort of contact, anything at all.

Malfoy dropped his shoulders, giving the clearing one last look over before deciding that he must have imagined it all. He was alone, and surprisingly so. Nonetheless, he took upon his moment of solitude to glance down at the letter in his hands with a raised brow, holding it limply to further inspect the thing. _"Meet me in the clearing in the woods,"_ it had instructed, and Draco had done that; he had gone that far. _"I'll be waiting."_

Draco huffed. Waiting? Yeah, well, that much was a lie. The only thing that welcomed Malfoy were the trees and the hedges, the sky around him that was fading ever so slowly into blackness. The only person that was waiting now was Malfoy, and he felt a surge of anxiety as he thought about it, about walking back. Then, pitifully, he came to hate himself, cursing his thoughts for even just sounding so mentally pathetic. He'd never been afraid of the dark- or, at least, hadn't until recently. And it wasn't that he could imagine the things that could possibly harm him within it, because that wasn't it at all. On the other hand, he _knew_... knew the things that could harm him, especially within the confines of the Manor, of his childhood home. And perhaps that was what had sparked his fear, made him almost weak as he considered turning back, hating himself for stupidly wandering out into the clearing anyways. But what had been done was done, and Draco pushed the letter bitter back into his coat pocket, feverishly turning back towards the clearing's parting as if he were truly ready to give up.

_"Stupefy!"_

Wind rushed around him and Malfoy heard the raspy voice before he could even locate its owner in all the chaos. And he felt light-headed as the curse hit his chest, collapsing like a pitiful rag doll onto the dry floor of the clearing. He was out before he even heard the footsteps crush the leaves at his feet, and the pair of two blurred figures as they advanced slowly towards him.

* * *

His arms were bound to his torso; he could feel it. And his wrists were wet with something that dribbled down to his fingers. In his mouth, he tasted iron; in his ears, he heard a shuffle. Yet the vision behind his impaired eyes had blurred and he felt woozy, foggy enough to only see the subtle movements of not one, but two smeared figures moving around before him. He struggled slightly against the bindings, felt a slight groan escape his throat, and wondered if he was even fully awake. Nonetheless, he could see the swift actions of his company, hexing the place in the clearing through hushed and whispered voices. Draco recognized their sounds vaguely, wondered if he had even known them at all. Then a dry voice came suddenly to his ears and Draco knew it instantly. "Hold on to this," the outline said and, unnoticed to his captors, Draco struggled again. Harry fucking Potter.

Draco saw the unclear image of the Boy-Who-Lived from his peripheral vision. His hair was a mess, his torso bound underneath the fabric of a stupid red sweater. He looked taller, thinner, and a bit roughed up. As he passed the image of something long and slender to the redheaded blur at his right, Draco Malfoy knew that it was his wand. He felt a ping of terror run through him, felt a bit shaky from the inside out. His throat rattled, something irritated rubbed against him, and he wondered what he was even tied to, what had even been done to get him hoisted up there.

He wondered why they hadn't noticed him there, slightly awake and fractionally out of it. However, then he noticed the heaviness in his eyes and that they were only really half opened, eyelashes lowered as if he were still locked within the confines of the cursed sleep they had forced him in. He pushed against the ties once more, weakly however, for he did not truly make any improvement upon freeing himself. Then, defeated, he tried to pry his heavy eyelids apart, though his luck only seemed to fail him. Feeling faint and still a bit woozy, Draco let his head lull forwards, for it was the only real place that it could fall in the first place, and tried one more time to free himself; nothing budged. He wriggled, more desperate, and this time he groaned inwardly.

"Did you hear that?" murmured the voice around him- Ron Weasley's. Draco's heart pounded rapidly in his chest. He was aware that he did not look awake, but felt a bit relieved when Potter's wiry frame tilted around to get a better look at him. Then Weasley made a slight grumble of his own, shuffling forward so that the leaves scuffled beneath his feet. "Harry, did you hear that?"

The shimmer behind Potter's stupid eye glasses caught Draco's half-lifted eyes. The boy leaned forward, peering at Draco now from his distance. He mimicked Weasley's slight head tilt, pushed the spectacles up towards the top of his nose. Then he said smartly, "I think he's awake."

Malfoy saw Weasley take a step even further, extending his wand. He pointed the tip of it near Draco's head, cocked up the pointed part of his chin and even stared into Draco's face before deciding, "He doesn't look awake."

Malfoy's mouth dropped open slightly. He tried to put on a face that showed his hostile expression, but was certain he had only wound up drooling on himself. Weasley's face contorted and he glanced at Harry pitifully, then Draco tried to speak. He was vaguely sure that the voice he heard was not his. It was muffled and slurring, as if a drunk's, and he sounded almost deaf, unable to speak properly at all. Yet the voice said, "'Mm 'wake," and Malfoy had to admit that, despite the embarrassment, the pathetic mumble had to have emitted from him.

Potter and Weasley exchanged glances and the wand dug deeper into the space between Malfoy's chin and neck. "Did you say something, Malfoy?" croaked Weasley, and Draco wanted to lean forward and strangle the living daylights out of him. The airiness of his situation made his head spin, and he tried hard to put on an aggravated expression.

"'Mm... wake," Draco tried, and then the wand pushed into his skin harder. "_Ugh_," Draco groaned, and gave his bindings one last forceful tug. "I'm awake you slimy git!" he sputtered, lifting his head as much as the dizziness allowed him. Something scratched against his exposed skin and the space on his back where his shirt had been slightly lifted. He wondered what he'd been tied to. "Stop prodding me."

Blinking, Potter froze. However, his confusion stopped almost instantly. Draco saw his face redden, watched the instant way that he'd lunged for his own wand. "Move aside, Ron," Harry commanded, and Ron did so obligingly, whipping his wand away from Draco's pale cheek only to allow Potter's to replace it. And Malfoy saw Harry's teeth gnash, felt an even more threatening pressure when Harry had taken control. Malfoy blinked, letting the steadiness come to him gradually, then he heard Harry hiss, "Where is she, Malfoy?"

Draco's eyes shifted. He saw the clearing in the woods and the leaves that surrounded the open ground. His eyes found Weasley next, dressed in a deep blue sweater that had been slightly torn at the shoulder. His feet, covered in scuffed leather shoes, made him seem as if he had been through Hell and back just to get himself in the clearing. The jeans he had on were slightly frayed, but he held onto his wand with such determination that his face wound up in a miserable grimace, as if he too were ready to lash out at Draco. And then Malfoy felt the wind beneath his feet. He wasn't on the ground as all, but hoisted upwards, lifted from it completely.

The scratching at his exposed flesh intensified, and his eyes further cleared. Trees- big, staggering, looming ones- surrounded the space that he'd been floating in. They looked aged and scruffy with experience, torn and tattered from the seasons, and then Draco knew; bark. Rough, gritty bark. He felt the callous scrape against his wrists, by his back, and by his shoulders. They'd tied him to a tree, a jagged, crusty tree; Draco felt furious.

"Where is she, Malfoy?"

"A _tree_?" Draco croaked, enraged. "You tied me to a bloody _tree_?" The blond tried to move his torso- ended up knocking his head back in the process.

"I said, '_where_ is she, Malfoy?'" Harry roared, and Draco thought that he might send the point of his wand through his cheek, he was pressing so hard.

"Potter! Let me down from this tree this _instant_!" growled Draco, grinding his teeth together in outraged fury. He jolted his leg in an attempt to kick him, but felt the ropeburn of the bindings at his feet. It grinded into the previous gash from where Goyle had thrown his mother's book, and made the hem of his trousers soaked with flowing crimson blood. They'd taken off his coat, leaving him only in his flimsy black jumper. He hissed, breathing out so harshly that he was unable to conceal the whimper that sounded out from his mouth at the pressure. "Give me back my wand _now_!"

Harry's figure reeved forward. He seized the collar of Malfoy's black shirt with his fist, pointed his wand into his burning sternum, and pressed his face so close to close into Malfoy's that the blond could almost smell the warm murk of his breath. "ANSWER ME!" he lashed, ignoring the way Draco gasped when his throat was constricted. Rather Harry shifted his position, pressing so hard with his weapon that it had begun to hurt his own knuckles. Nonetheless, he inched closer towards Draco so that he could lock his emerald eyes into the gray ones.

"Give me my _wand, _Potter," seethed Malfoy, and Harry pushed himself backwards, ramming Draco's head back into the bark so that he saw tiny flecks of blinking spots before his eyes.

But Harry only stood slightly farther back, thrusting his hand into his pocket to retrieve a beige sheet of curled up paper. Draco knew it instantly to be Hermione's letter; he could see the way the letters mixed together to form a collection of girlish prints, despite being scratched with hurry. "What," Harry Potter bellowed, his shoulders moving up and down with every released pant, "is this?"

"It's yours, Potter!" Draco spat, returning his spite gaze. He felt the blood drip into his sock, felt as if he were going to be sick.

"Who wrote it?" Harry yelled. Ron's wand pointed out at Draco just behind the frantic hero's shoulder. He looked equally as hostile, similarly as bitter. Draco could see the freckled red fist as it balled up at his side. He felt his heart beating wildly in his chest and he remembered how much he had always hated them.

Malfoy's eyes blazed. He wanted to rip Potter's head clear off his shoulders. "Who the _fuck_ do you think it's signed by?" Draco rasped, looking down at the obvious _'H'_ that had ended the letter clearly.

Harry's face crumbled into a terrible grimace. He whipped his wand into the air so stiffly that the wind cracked. His spell was wordless, but the moment he had directed the end of his wand at Draco's figure, he felt a surge of something tugging harshly at his temples. His vision blurred even further, the swell of nausea rising up further in his throat. Potter's direct spell hit him clearly, making him swoon with forced illness, his head smoldering as if it were on fire. An unwilling sob emerged from Draco, and Harry called out, "who _wrote_ it, Malfoy?"

"_Granger!_" Draco responded through his shut teeth, feeling as if the entire world were pressing him down into oblivion. Potter's spell made him sick with rotation, squashed with the heaviness of his skull. "_Granger wrote it!_" He was desperate when he spoke again, blood trailing from his lip as it bit down on it hard.

Potter's wand gave a massive flick and the spell was lifted from Malfoy, sending his torso to slump forward against his bindings. He breathed out, trying to lift his arms but only managing to feel weaker. The lack of sound around him told Draco that Harry had not moved from his spot before him. His wand was still held out in front of his chest. His eyes were still on Draco's with overbearing force. "Where- is- she?"

Malfoy's body ached as if he had been suffering from the flu. The pain inflicted by the Golden Boy only added to the magnitude of the hangover he had arrived with since earlier in the morning. It made his mind think slowly, as if set backwards, and sent anxious butterflies of resentment dancing around in his stomach. "Fuck you," Malfoy seethed feverishly. Potter's upper lip twitched. He let out a little growl before raising his wand again. He pointed the tip at the rope around Draco's body. They gave a little jolt before sinking back in to Malfoy's skin tightly. They rubbed against every part of his skin, forced him back into the bark, and cut off the air in his chest. Winded, Draco's head flew back again, his fingers writhing as he felt the wind leave him completely.

"_Where is she Malfoy?"_ Harry commanded, knuckles turning white with his constricting grip.

Gray eyes squeezing shut, Malfoy's mouth opened and closed with dry and hoarse gasps. Another sob broke him and, struggling, he coughed, "C-Cellar! She's in the bloody Cellar!"

The tense rope stopped moving, backed up a bit even so that Draco could get a breath. He inhaled wildly, sputtering into his chilly surroundings like someone who'd been drowned. Harry watched Draco unsympathetically, his brows knitting together with bitter concentration. "What have you done to her?"

Draco's chest relaxed. He breathed slow, steadier with each quivering whisk of air. "What do you think?" Draco challenged out of spite, and Harry whirled back, this time lifting his fist. He slammed his limb so hard into Draco's face that the blond's hair got tangled into the bark behind him. He felt the sharp edges of it cut into his skull, spring fresh scrapes into the back of his neck. And then his nose was bleeding profusely. Blood tumbled from his nostrils, mixed into the crack of his lips. The jolt lashed at his broken arm and drove the welt in his ankle down further. This time, Draco couldn't have stopped the whine if his life depended on it.

Harry did not drop his hand, looking as if he fully intended on striking Draco again. He spoke over the miserable groans that slipped from Draco's mouth. The boy was delirious, knocked so hard against the tree that he heard Harry as if he were standing at a far distance. Things blended together, and he felt his eyes roll back into his forehead. "Have you killed her?" Harry shouted, his eyes laced with tears that made him look glossy and faded. The only answer that Draco could give was another far-off moan. Harry's expression practically stabbed itself into him.

Then Dumbledore's favorite student crashed forward, grabbing Draco's jaw tight, as if he were going to crush him. Draco's eyes whirled around; he looked hysterical as Harry jolted him back from his distorted reality. "Have you killed her, Malfoy?" Harry said, his voice finally breaking. "Is she alive?"

Coughing, Draco tried to pull his face from Potter's grip, his vision faltering again. Mumbling in a desperate slur, Draco sounded almost defeated when he begged, "let me down."

Unsatisfied, Harry released Draco's jaw, slamming it down to his chest strictly. Then he pried Draco's wand from Ron's pocket, held it out towards Malfoy with each of the ends in two separate hands. "Answer me or I'll snap it," he warned, absolutely serious. He pushed down slightly with his strength, and the pressure on the thing made Malfoy's heart stop beating.

Without his wand, he would be defenseless, and who knew when the Death Eaters would arrive back at the Manor? He'd needed protection, needed to be able to keep himself safe. His wand was his own form of keeping them off his back, his only way of assuring that he would not be attacked the very moment that his back was turned. Wandless, he wouldn't stand a chance. "No! Please!" yelped Draco, fear flooding through his entire body. He couldn't lose his wand, couldn't bare the vulnerability and helplessness. "Please, Potter, she's alive!" he croaked, "Don't snap it, she's alive!"

Harry did not let the wand drop from his grip. "Prove it!" he gnarled, his eyes shinny with tears.

Malfoy's focus found his coat, discarded at the end of the stump where the two had thrown it. Hermione's torn jacket piece rest within its pockets. "In my jacket!" Malfoy explained hastily, "in the pocket!" His eyes still watched the hostile way in which Harry held his wand. "P-Please, don't snap it!"

Potter's shoulders dropped. He blinked slightly, turning towards Ron and then letting his wand fall slightly in his grip. He glanced back over his shoulder, took in the sight of Draco's black coat, and backed away towards it, his hands moving quickly as he pried apart the pockets, bringing out the tattered piece of Hermione's clothing unsteadily. He stared down at it for a moment, turning the lifeless pink fabric in his hands as if he were trying to recognize it. Yet the look in his features signified that he had. From his side, Ron's face reddened.

In the distance, Potter's voice cracked when he asked, "where did you get this?"

"I got it from _Granger_!" Draco told him, watching his own wand in between Harry's fingers. "She's in my Cellar at the Manor! She's alive," his chest burned severely, "I tore it from her clothing!"

Ron Weasley's vibrant visage deepened. He took a step closer to Malfoy, whisked his wand up and jabbed it at the tip of Malfoy's nose, making his gray eyes cross. "And why should we believe you?" he snarled, looking just as miserable as Potter did. He appeared not to have eaten in days, looked as if he had not slept at all, either. There was something about his sullen face that told Draco that the two had been waiting for him in the clearing for a lot longer than they had let on.

Draco felt as if his ankle were going to fall off completely from the end of his bound legs. "She let me have it!" he hissed, blond hair falling across his forehead. "And she wrote the letter!" he struggled to think of something he could say to convince them, his mind on his wand and his loss of protection and all the things that would happen to him without it. "It was her idea, I swear!"

On the uncomfortable tree, Malfoy felt dizziness wash over him. He had not seen either of the pair since the year prior at the Astronomy Tower. Potter seemed far more enraged and murderous than he would have expected, and Malfoy assumed that he had been told of the events that had conspired, was fairly certain that Harry knew that he, Draco Malfoy, had at least something to do with the death of the great Albus Dumbledore.

As predicted, the green eyes behind Harry's spectacles darkened. "Why would you want to help us, Malfoy?" Harry prodded, taking a stance next to Weasley. Together, they looked as if they were ready to rip Draco Malfoy into a million separate shreds. "Why should we trust a single thing you say?"

Malfoy's blood popped, his patience partly lost. Stupid Potter was so caught up in his questions that he wasn't if giving him the time of day to answer. And he certainly had not improved matters by deciding to tie him up to the surface of a rather thick tree. Seething, Draco opted again for defiance. "I don't have to explain myself to you, Pot-"

If there was any doubt in Draco Malfoy's mind to whether Harry Potter could pack a punch, the Slytherin wondered no longer. Hard and thundering, Harry's balled fist collided with full force into Malfoy's stomach with a loud grunt. He pulled away breathless, listening to Draco's sputtering coughs as if it satisfied him. His own black hair fumbled across his scarred forehead and his glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose. He exchanged his heavy fist with the tip of his wand, prodding it into Malfoy's neck the very moment he had stepped back. "TELL ME!" Harry roared, and Draco tried to collect his breath when the ropes around his body began to tighten again.

"PLEASE!" croaked the boy, "PLEASE! I- can't- breathe! Please!" The bindings were grinding into his ankle like saws. The lower leg of Draco's black trousers had been completely washed through with blood, the nape of his neck a spurring fountain of red. He let out yet another pitiful sob and pressed his watery eyes shut; Harry Potter released some of their hold on him.

He said, "you're going to have to earn that privelage," and he was speaking about Draco's own ability to access his air passageways. He changed the direction of his interrogation, however, thrusting his hand out to the part of the tree bark by his head. "Who is keeping Hermione in your Cellar, Malfoy?"

Draco stuggled further, sobbing until the ropes tugged again. "The D-Death Eaters!" he yelped, drawing in a huge intake of breath.

Harry's eyes grew wide. Malfoy mentally snorted. Who else would he have expected to have taken her? However, he lurched forward, grabbing a fistful of Draco's shaggy blond hair. "Why?" he scowled.

"To- lure- _you!_" Draco panted, once again seeing stars. "Potter, stop!" He felt an unfamiliar popping around his head, felt as if he were about to loose consciousness. He was going to murder Potter himself if he did pass out. If they left him tied to a tree without his wand, he promised to personally shove them off a cliff.

But Harry wasn't listening. "Why the letter?" he asked as if still unconvinced Hermione had written it herself.

"A warning!" Draco continue painfully. "It- was- a- _warning! _Stop!" he begged, and this time he was certain that the rope was beginning to infect his prior wounds. He swayed with nausea at the idea of it dwindling down to his bones, held back an excess of bile as he felt the illness rise in his stinging throat. "Stop, _please!"_

Harry glanced over at Ron, dropped his hold on his wand, and let the spell slightly release all over again. Draco fell only slightly forward with the loosened grip, breathed out and let his heavy head drop to the side near his slumped shoulder. For the millionth time in the night his vision had blurred, and he felt only semi-conscious near his two captors. When he tried to speak out in his defense, only a miserable little moan pushed out from his mouth and, weak, Malfoy permitted himself to simply hang low, untouched.

"Ron," Harry whispered, tilting a bit to one side, "do you have it?"

"Yeah," the freckled boy croaked, and an anxious smile spread across his pale face. "Hold on." For a moment Ron Weasley disappeared, but when he returned, he came back bearing a clear bottle of what could have perhaps been simply water. But Ron held it in between his wiry fingertips, careful for such a small and delicate vile. However, Draco had seen the bottle a multitude of times in potions class, remembered even the slightest glisten of the way it shimmered as he thought back to Severus Snape and the way he had presented it to a class some years ago. Veritaserum; Draco knew right off the bat.

Gasping, Malfoy writhed against the bindings, but Ron lunged forward, grabbing a handful of the blond's jaw and forcing his mouth unwillingly open. He ignored the grunt that signified Malfoy was trying to fight it, clamping his hand over Draco's mouth and pinching his nostrils shut in the process. Both Ron and Harry listened to Draco wheeze, heard the strangled gurgles of his throat as he tried to resist swallowing. And then the entire complexion of Draco's face turned blue; he couldn't breathe at all. Squeezing his eyes shut, Draco attempted one last time to keep the potion from spilling into his stomach. Lashing out against the ropes, Malfoy knew that sooner or later he'd have to give in. The tightening at the back of his throat was impossible, and he truly was risking being smothered to death.

He tried to tell Potter where to properly put his Veritaserum, tried to bite Weasley's hand and make him reel back and away. Yet neither of his options worked. Only, Malfoy managed to mumble, "_mm-mm_!" before feeling the urge to swallow tickle at the back of his throat. Then, when he was certain he couldn't take anymore, Draco lost the war. The ghastly liquid tumbled down the slope of his mouth, made him feel weak and lifeless within the very instant that it hit him. Draco's body finally sagged against the bindings once again; this time, he was certain he'd have fallen on his face without the support of them.

Stupidly, Ron Weasley stumbled back, as if surprised his hostile approach had even worked in getting Draco to swallow anything. Then, befuddled, he turned readily to Harry, who seemed almost lost in the daze that had taken on Draco's sleepy complexion. And then Malfoy could not focus on anything at all. He could see the trees, but felt no connection to them, almost numb as his back still mercilessly scraped against the bark behind him. His senses were lessened; he couldn't smell the season, couldn't feel the nip of the chill at his cheeks. What he sensed was the wave of focus, of something so intense, yet he could not quite put his finger on it. He saw Harry, saw Ron, saw their mouth move through the haze that was his eyes and their voices sounded just so... clear.

Breathing slowly, Ron took a minute step towards Draco's tree. "Who are you?" he asked, starting off easy.

Malfoy felt the wind shift around him. He knew who he was, and the urge to tell them made his knees weak. He didn't hear himself speak, but felt his throat vibrate as he informed them of his persona. "Draco... Malfoy," he reported in a daze.

Harry's chest rose at his chance. Forgetting formalities, he jumped right to it. "Hermione," he asked quickly, "is she alive?"

Thinking of Cellars, and rotting bodies, and Hermione Granger screaming, Draco Malfoy nodded dizzily, "yes."

Once again, the wetness in Potter's green eyes intensified. He looked almost grounded with relief, overwhelmed with the notion that he had not lost Hermione. And Draco heard him choke on a sob, fighting in an attempt to mask it. Yet Malfoy wouldn't have even noticed it if he'd tried; he was far too preoccupied with the fog and the way that it almost loomed over him greedily. He had no to time to think Potter pathetic or stupid or foolish, he only had time to try and steady to wobbling ground. He did so unsuccessfully.

"She's alive?" he asked again, as if he had not heard, breaking with every word.

"Yes," Malfoy breathed.

Stumbling back, Harry Potter's shoulders dropped. He looked so relieved. His entire face slackening, Harry's complexion softened, and the tears in his eyes looked glassy with hope. The hand that he had used to hold Draco's wand fumbled, as well. Instead of remaining true to his grip that he'd had on it, he let the thin thing clatter to the scattered leaves lifelessly. And Ron Weasley, too, took several steps away from Draco, slumping down to seat himself at the surface of a stumpy tree in the center of the clearing. He ran his own hands through his head of red hair, running his palms over his face only to sigh aloud.

Collecting himself, Harry swallowed, gulping as he prepared to continue. "What do they plan to do with her?" he added, shakily.

"They're using her to bring you to them," said the woozy Draco. He was beginning to feel as if the sensations in his torso were up to par with a night of heavy drinking. Not something he was too unfamiliar with, yet under the sway of the Veritaserum, Draco could not help but feel vulnerable. He had absolutely no command over what words came from his mouth. He told him wearily, "its a trap."

"So," Ron asked from the tree stump, "what Hermione's letter says is the truth?"

Harry's head snapped back. He turned once again to Draco. "Is it?" he questioned, and his tone was harsh once again.

Draco sagged; he didn't know. "Dunno... h-haven't read it," he heard himself sputter, and Harry's hand flew back to the roll of parchment.

_"'H&R,'"_ Harry began, looking up from Hermione's letter once to glance back up at Draco before continuing at all_. _He read the thing rushed, as if in a hurry to get it over with, but continued to pause with minute and heartbroken cracks as he read his close friend's words. _"'I must make this quick, for I am not alone. They have me in the Cellar at the Malfoy Manor, though I am not sure how long its been. However, it seems I have broken through to DM,'"_ Harry paused, nodding towards Draco as if to clarify. "'_He has agreed to send his owl in search of you with my note. I'm not sure when this will reach you, but know that, for now, I am alright. I'm assuming DM will be waiting for anything you send to the Manor; oddly enough, I think we can trust him.'"_

When Potter looked back up at Draco, his eyebrow was cocked up highly. He thrust the letter down again into his pocket. "It's true, then?" he asked, and when Malfoy muttered his unwilling approval, Harry's stature deflated. He overlooked the trail of trickling drool that had begun to slip from Draco's lips. Instead, he lifted up his chin sightly. "Why?" he sighed, looked spent. "Why would you help us?"

Malfoy looked on the verge of unconsciousness. His head ached with the pressure, his wrists throbbing with the burn. He mumbled, "... have to... get out." His murmurs slurred almost foreignly; both Ron and Harry had to strain to even begin to understand what his voice was telling them. "If I don't kill her, they'll... kill me..."

"They want you to kill Hermione?" Ron bellowed, his voice rising. He whipped himself up from his tree stump, lumbered over towards Harry and stood only centimeters behind him.

Too drugged to fight the side-effects of the potion, Draco's face crumbled. His eyes shut halfway, his mouth barely forming the words, "'mm supposed to..."

Harry gritted his teeth together. "'Supposed to'?" He asked with aggression, narrowing his eyes directly. "What do you mean you're 'supposed to' kill Hermione?"

"Orders..." Draco slurred. "Can't..."

"Can't what, Malfoy?" Harry gnarled. The ropes lashed out again at Draco's exposed flesh. He felt the grinding even through the haziness and coughed wildly, eyes watering so much so that they had begun to start to sting.

"Can't kill her!" Draco choked, gasping for air desperately. "I can't! Please, P-Potter!"

"I think he's going to pass out," Ron advised, and he scoffed as if he didn't quite believe it himself.

Harry's eyes widened. He tilted his head as if to better understand, eyes squinting slightly. Then he let his hand drop, even allowed the ropes around Draco's torso to slacken. With a little breath out, Draco let his body flop lifelessly forward and his breaths filled the air before him. But Harry watched Draco carefully, his eyes behind his glasses flashing slightly. Slowly, ever so slowly, he started to speak. There was something about his way of speech, something cautious, as if he was finally piecing the pieces of Draco Malfoy together.

He breathed in slowly, watching Draco so closely that he noticed almost everything about him. The way in which his blond head sagged made him look delirious and weak, his shoes now soaking wet with blood. "Like," Harry started, "you couldn't kill Dumbledore?" Despite the pain, Draco looked up. For a second, he allowed his gaze to lock into Potter's and then, writhing, he fought against the answer that tugged against the back of his head. But Weasley was right, he was about to lose consciousness.

Feeling faint, Draco Malfoy's words were nothing more than a timid little mumble, "I don't know."

The moment that remained between the two of them held strong. Harry did not take his eyes off of Malfoy's bent forward head. Only, he stood in front of the boy, breathing, his own face bent low in inquiry. And he paused to take in the appearance of the woozy Malfoy, the boy he had known since their years at school. It wasn't as if anything about him had changed; he was still the same prat, still the same school bully. And yet, everything seemed so... altered at the same time. Despite being forced to tell the truth, Harry could see the shift in Draco's gray eyes the very moment he had mentioned Dumbledore. He had done it; he had struck a cord.

Malfoy winced, his chest rising desperately. He lost his contact with Harry, let his head fall forward and didn't even seem to notice Harry's own inward sigh. He kept his scrutinized expression strong, but instead moved towards Draco and lifted his hands, placing them on the blond's lowered shoulders. He shoved his wand into the pocket of his jeans just as he finally released the rope around Draco's body. When Malfoy felt his back push off the bark of the tree, he only managed to collide with Harry, leaning unwillingly against him for support as he felt the stinging in his overtly bloody ankle. And Harry heard his grunt of bitterness, though he was certain that there was some embarrassment mixed in there as well, and allowed Ron to help with steadying the blond's impossibly lifeless head.

Harry ran a hand through his black hair, breathing out. When they'd had Draco up in a slightly seated position, Potter sighed, "dammit, Malfoy," and Draco mumbled incoherently as a response.

Ron turned to Harry accordingly. "When did he get so bloody pathetic?" he asked with a whisper, though Draco heard him clearly. Snorting, the Malfoy only pressed his head back against the tree as a pillow, and ignored the needle-like leaves underneath him.

Face contorted, Potter leaned in close. "What's wrong with you, Malfoy?" he asked, forehead wrinkling in concern. He seemed to have forgotten he had just attempted to halt the boy's breathing at all. Rather, he glanced up and down Draco's bent torso for a clue, his eyes watching the minute little breaths that rose in his chest. When he spotted the blood pouring from Malfoy's lowered trouser leg, Harry drew back. He muttered something to himself before diving down towards it, using the tip of his wand to lift the clothing so that he could garner for himself a better look. Thus, when he'd pulled the material up far enough, Harry finally saw the sawed down ankle; fresh with newfound blood, he wondered what the white specks of it were before realizing that he'd struck all the way through to the bone. "Oh."

Pushing his body slightly forward, Ron Weasley stepped towards the two to have his own proper look. And he lowered himself to the roots of the thick tree trunk that spread like veins at the roots. Tilting his head to one side, he surveyed the bloody condition of Draco's crooked ankle, blinking his blue eyes as if he were not quite sure what it was that he was really looking at. He took in the image of Draco's sloppy position, the way he used his arms to keep his upper torso supported. He overlooked the slanted way his right shoulder loomed, only to feel the front of his face drain drastically. "What the bleeding Hell?"

Leaning forward, Harry took in a deep breath. He gulped, nearing the surface of the exposed bone that struck out wildly at the bottom of Draco's bent limb. For a moment he hesitated, and then, sweating, he finally went in for the plunge.

"Don't touch it!" Draco growled, attempting to pull himself up from the leafy ground. Only, his poor ankle did not do him much good at all, in the long run. The moment he'd lifted it, the useless thing slipped crookedly to one side and he let out a hoarse little gasp as he fumbled back down to the floor. His top white teeth clamped down hard at the bulk of his bottom lip.

Harry assumed his position, ignoring Draco completely. Instead, he peered his sweaty head down at the wound, narrowing two green eyes to garner for himself a better look. He took in the sight of the crooked bone and the shiny way it struck out of the blond's flesh completely. The wound was bruised; black and red, it clotted at the outside of Draco's pale skin, clung on to the wonky surface of his jagged bone. "Malfoy," Harry began in his scrutiny, "this doesn't look good..."

Draco's head snapped up, his gray eyes ablaze. "I've got _you _to bloody thank for that!" he seethed, feeling more and more faint as the pins and needs climbed up the length of his cast out leg. Yet, when Harry strove to analyze it again, Draco's eyes widened at the slight manner in which he rose his hands. Inching forward, he saw that Harry was about to touch it and his heart skipped a beat. Thus, clamoring, Malfoy whisked his hands up off from his ankle and clawed them at the dingy scarf he'd had dangling around his neck. Pulling the lifeless fabric from around his shoulders, Draco bundled up the thing and brought it down to his ankle so forcefully that he almost appeared frenzied. Nonetheless, he hissed as the thing touched his open wound, choking back a sob as he scrambled to fix his slouched posture.

"Malfoy, _move_," Harry demanded, rolling his eyes and reaching forward to peel the thing from his skin once again. Draco, numb, only glared, allowing Harry to pull the scarf from his ankle and toss it over the arch of his hunched over back, getting rid of it completely. "I don't know how I'm going to be able to heal the older part of this," he rambled, as if talking to himself. However, once he looked back up at Draco, there was something of a hint of concern etched on his sweaty face. Despite Draco's insistence, Harry could see that the injury was not completely his doing. As he neared forward, he scanned the image of the deep bruises at his ankle. Something about it looked aged and ancient, as if he'd been walking around with the infected gash for weeks.

Thus, Harry raised an inquisitive eyebrow, his own teeth gnawing on his own lower lip cautiously. "This looks older," he told Draco conclusively.

"Well you certainly have not done anything to _improve_ it!" Draco snapped again, reeling back as Harry only lifted his wand. He overlooked the bitterness in Draco's tone, muttering a spell to heal Draco's wounds instantly. Malfoy pressed his eyes shut, listening to the uneasy and unsure way in which Potter breathed the spell.

His voice did not sound soothing and song-like as Snape's once had. Only, Potter's stammer was slightly broken with discomfort, his hands trembling with the uncertainty of not having performed the spell on numerous occasions. Nonetheless, when he'd finished, Draco had to admit that he felt slightly better. Not plagued by the sight of his ankle's ghastly condition before, Malfoy opened his eyes to find that his wound was crusted over, at least arguably healed. No longer did his bone strike out from the skin. Instead, a stretch of Malfoy's white skin covered the porcelain sufficiently.

Breathing, Harry drew back, his eyes still on Malfoy's flesh, as he wiped the trail of perspiration from his dewy forehead. Clustered together in a group of awkward three, the boys took a glance at Draco's ankle together, their silence consuming the wind that was the fading night. "Can you walk on it, at least?" croaked Harry, pushing his own wand back into his pockets. He seemed to forget having discarded Draco's amongst the scattered leaves beforehand.

Scoffing, Malfoy yanked the bottom of his black trousers over the wound, concealing it. "Why's it matter?" he said blankly, and Harry watch him lift his left arm, using it to steady himself at the tree he had just escaped the trunk of. He wobbled a bit but, after a few seconds of inquiry, managed to stand on his two feet, gray eyes searching the forest floor for the sight of his left behind weapon.

"It matters if we're going to put a plan together, Malfoy," Harry answered him, still seated. Looking up, he watched the blond survey the scene, a pained look on his face that made him look slightly childish as he tried to hold it back.

"What are you on about?" was his only rushed remark.

Harry slid to the side casually on the leaves, his fingers finding Draco's wand without much effort. Scooping it up, he handed it to Draco, who yanked it out of his hands within the instant. Harry, however, only took to overlooking the chance to hesitate, before then pulling his own body up from the ground. Once he'd garnered a proper stance for himself, he allowed Ron to take the lead. "Hermione, of course," he said, somewhat crossly, before tightening the grip he'd had on his own wand. The wind shifted his red hair across his set of blue eyes, yet they glistened oddly at Malfoy as if he wanted, more than anything, to cut to the chase.

And, for a split second, Draco found himself wondering if Weasley and Granger had anything together- or still did. It was aping of curiosity that he couldn't quite explain, one that burned deeply within his chest before he'd even noticed it there. Then, when he'd noticed himself contemplating the thought, he inwardly winced. Why the thought had bothered invading his thoughts in the first place was a mystery, even to him. "And what's the plan you have figured out, then, Potter?" Draco retorted, making up for his moment of tangent thinking.

For the second time in the night, Harry's hand produced the curled up letter that Hermione had sent him only one day prior. "Letters," he said simply, as if he'd had it figured out a long time ago. "I need you to keep sending Hermione's letters."

Ron cut in momentarily, his eyes narrowed in a bout of outward suspicion, "I'm assuming you're going to keep an eye on her, aren't you?" he asked, but his question went vaguely ignored.

"You expect me to risk my _life _every night so that the three of you can pass notes?" he asked, feeling at least somewhat safer with his wand returned to him.

"At least until I can contact the Order," Harry replied, looking decisive. "They'll know what to do from there." At Potter's blatant certainty, Malfoy scoffed. "It might take a while," Harry continued on, nonetheless, "all I need is for you to keep her safe until the Order can come up with a plan."

"And so I'm supposed to sit around as the message man?" Draco asked, slightly offended. "You expect me to stand around _waiting_ for the arrival of your letters every night?"

Harry watched Malfoy for a slight while, stuffing the contents of Hermione's letter back into his jacket pocket for the very last time. "Do you want to get out of there or not, Malfoy?" he counteracted, and Draco tore away from the tree with a limp, his silence almost answering Harry Potter's question for him. Nonetheless, both Ron and Harry watched Draco lean back down, collecting his jacket from the ground before shoving it hastily over each of his slender arms. When he'd finished redressing himself, however, he returned Harry's gaze with a complexion that was reddened and slightly shaken.

"I hope," he said, attempting to appear arrogant but only managing to come off as sickly, "you know what you're doing."

"I do, too," Harry said, doing nothing to ease Malfoy's terror. Then, however, Harry added, "if the letters tell Hermione to send you... this is where we'll meet."

"So, what?" jeered Draco, feeling filled with resentment, "you can tie me to the trunk of a fucking tree again?"

Ron scoffed. "You ask for it, we'll deliver," he stated, and Draco pulled out his wand as a warning; Ron, however, didn't even flinch. Rather, the two glanced back at one another before eying the rest of the wood carefully. Ron's eyes found the sky, now dark with the night, and he reached up to smooth the fluff of his red hair almost conclusively. Only Draco remained dumbfounded, his arm weak and shaky as he watched the two carelessly shift before him, their focus on the blackness and the howl of the nightlife as if broke into slow and uneasy action around them. Finally, Ron said, "it's getting dark, he told Harry. "I think we should get back." He left their destination a mystery.

Harry's expression matched Ron's. "Right," he nodded, and turned back to Draco for the last time. "Can you keep her safe?" he asked the blond, and Malfoy's visage contorted once again.

"What kind of question is that?" he asked, his head slightly spinning.

Through clenched teeth, Ron hissed, "answer the question, Malfoy." He struck his own wand under Draco's chin and, Malfoy had to give it to him, Weasley certainly had collected a fair amount of courage over his time camping out in the Wizarding World.

Draco watched Ron's blue eyes, gaving in bitterly when he spat out, "_fine!"_

Yet he did not expect his delivery of an answer would send them on their way. However, both Potter and Weasley seemed satisfied with his answer, their expressions shifting into a reluctant bout of acceptance before bending down to gather their own things. "Keep an eye out for our letter," Harry informed him over the newly rushing wind. Then Potter rummaged through something in his trousers and produced a vile just as small as their previous one. Draco studied it when it saw it, but could only stand still as the thing was pushed forcefully into his chest.

Glancing down at it, Draco knew; antiserum. He didn't waste time being grateful. He loathed the two too much.

Instead, Draco could only watch as they slipped back towards the opening of the parted trees before him, their wands drawn out, almost as if Aurors.

And they were just going to leave him there, like that, ending the conversation on their own accord. Frozen, Draco watched Ron as he peered through the brush, making sure the coast was clear before gesturing to Harry, who nodded back to him as well. They ignored Malfoy, who stood almost rigidly behind them, his shoulders lowered with his arms dangling at his skinny sides. The wand in his grip almost fumbled to the floor, his mouth parted slightly at his lips.

Certainly Harry and Ron were content with the plan, but they were not exactly the ones putting their lives on the line in a house full of Death Eaters. Draco's heart skipped a beat and he felt an excessive amount of bile rise in his throat. He'd fraternized with the enemy- if the Death Eaters found out, he would never see the light of day again. The wind picked up around him, howled tauntingly at his ears, and Draco felt the same sense of unease that he had the very moment he had arrived.

They were going to leave him there, with Hermione, with the Death Eaters. He could almost physically feel the time of his hypothetical clock running out. In the air, a mental sort of ticking rang throughout his ears. He was going to die... he was going to be six feet under, buried, decayed, and mauled.

"And what if," he asked with a hoarse yell, frantic as the wind brushed his blond hair across his upper face, "I'm found out?"

Yet his answer came simply, almost carelessly as Harry raised and lowered his shoulders, glancing over them in a slight and point-blank manner. "I suggest you cover your tracks," he advised and, with that, he was gone.


	10. Please Make Me Better

**Vonne: **Hello again! This is it- the very last update of 2010! Next year will kick off 'Cellar Door' into full swing and I'm so excited! Thank you for your continual interest in my work all through out 2010! I'm so grateful for all of your motivation and support.

**LilyRousseau: **Thank you very much! I liked the idea of a tortured and forlorn Malfoy, and I think he's portrayed like that in the last couple books. I definitely know what you mean when you say you're not too into a "weak" Draco. My version of Malfoy is usually a broken Draco, which is the most realistic in my mind. Malfoy's so against doing the right thing, though I'm certain that doing exactly that it something that he desires to have the courage for. In "Cellar Door" I like to toy with the frustration that Malfoy has in that aspect, you know? He just wants to bad to be his father, and it's almost impossible for him, you know?

**Wopsidaisy: **Thank you so much! I'm so glad that you're enjoying "Cellar Door", despite the angst. I've tried a bit to write other things, but usually I end up enjoying writing angst the most. I can totally see how it can be difficult to read, but I'm so happy that I've managed to somehow keep your interest. That fact really motivates me. You have no idea how much I appreciated your review. I'm glad you find this to be realistic- I've tried so hard to make it so. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I hope you enjoy this chapter, as well.

**Isabella120: **Yes! Definitely time for a bit of a Harry and Ron appearance. They were bound to show up sooner or later, huh? It's got to be very frustrating for Hermione and Draco to be left in the Manor with the Death Eaters, but with eyes and hexes all over the place, leaving just like that would be impossible. Hopefully Harry and the Order can put together a plan- and fast, too! ;)

**Priscina Alice Malfoy: **Here you go, chapter ten! I'm so glad you liked this story so far. Perhaps Draco and Hermione will get out of the Manor, but not before Harry and the Order come up with a way to get them out first. It's going to be really hard with the Death Eater's eyes and ears all over the house, not to mention a very serious Crabbe on the lookout. Thank you so much for your interest in this- anyone with the word 'Malfoy' in their pen name that likes my work is an honor. ;)

**Sarah: **Helloo! I've wanted to respond back to _you_ the most because I hadn't been able to over the past couple updates. First off, I wanted to say thank you for the 'Isolation' recommendation. I read all the chapters of the fiction so far and I really am enjoying it. I love getting fic recs! Thanks for a great one! Second, your reviews make my night. Thank you for your interest, it motivates me! Anyway, I hope you like this chapter as much as you've been liking the others. Chapter ten is a bit shorter than my previous ones, but I promise not to make the short length a habit. Happy New Year!

**Corey Fitzwilliam: **Harry and Ron definitely were not hospitable to our Draco, huh? I guess the boys are a bit hostile towards Draco, considering the last time they had heard of him, he was standing on top of the Hogwart's Astronomy Tower, ready to murder Albus Dumbledore. I hope you forgive whichever character you've come to hate though, now. Forgive him/her. They didn't mean it. ;)

**TragicSlytherin: **You are always one of my first chapter reviewers- thank you so much! I love getting long reviews from you, it's appreciated after writing such long chapters. Anyways, it seems as though Harry and Ron are still a bit hostile towards our Draco. As for the violence, the boys just couldn't resist, perhaps they were only just trying to get back at him for all the torment he put them through in school? As a fellow Slytherin, I've got to agree with you, though; besides, your review made me laugh. ;)

**Sapphire1031:** Thank you! I'm so glad that you're enjoying this story so far. I've got to agree with you, though- Draco IS a pathetic wimp. But, then again, wasn't he always? When I write I try to make the characters as believable as possible and, after reading the Harry Potter books over and over again, I've come to the conclusion that Draco was never that much of a badass in the first place. He couldn't kill Dumbledore, could barely torture Rowle. Not to mention the conversation between Crabbe and Draco towards the end of DH, when Crabbe tells Draco he "doesn't have to listen to him anymore". During the whole thing, Draco's only begging with him not to kill him. You know? I hope it makes a bit more sense now?

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_Dig a hole in the middle of the street. Dig it down, dig it down, six - feet - deep._

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**Chapter Ten**  
**Please Make Me Better**

When Draco Malfoy broke through the barrier of the Cellar door to fumble down the stone steps and stand with an awkwardly balanced posture in front of Hermione Jean Granger, he was bleeding, crooked, and a bit crippled. And from the ground, the girl surveyed the stature of the blond boy's rugged face, took in the sight of the trail of uncleaned blood that had dried around the corner of his thin lips. He did not wear a smile, but instead a furious frown, his gray eyes narrowed in accusation as if he were waiting for her to explain to him what exactly had temporarily ruined his otherwise unmarked visage. However, Hermione of course only remained silent, her breaths slow and inquisitive as she finally asked with the slightest hint of concern, "what happened to you?"

Malfoy's flesh took on an entirely new shade of red. "Weren't your bloody _friends_ ever taught to play _nice_?" hissed Draco maliciously, his voice equally as low. She could see the way that his black shirt was wet, caught the slightly hint of a red liquid as it seeped through the fabric of his trousers onto his pale, bruised ankle. He looked as if he were about ready to attack her for his condition, and Hermione would have flinched if she hadn't known any better.

"My friends?" she asked nonetheless, lifting up an eyebrow curiously. Her face was laced with curiosity, but slowly, it lifted with realization. She did not seem to believe her assumptions at first, however, she let her tone drop to a barely audible whisper when she asked hoarsely, _"Harry and Ron?"_

Prepared to lean against the stone wall behind him, Draco pulled his sleeve across his lip. Wiping the blood from his face, Malfoy gave his arm a swift looking over before counteracting, "I wasn't aware that you had any others, Granger."

The brunette's head snapped up. Her face drained, yet she looked relieved, almost to the point of happiness that would have made a past Draco Malfoy vomit. "You saw them?" she asked, her voice raising up a bit higher as if she could not contain her low tone any longer. Draco responded with a quick roll of his eyes, kicking off the shoe of his injured foot with the toe of his other. He ignored Hermione's softening complexion, her eyes moist with overwhelmed appreciation. When Hermione spoke next, Draco had taken to surveying the condition of his newly repaired ankle. He grimaced when he saw the remaining bruises, an almost bitter look crossing over his facial features. Hermione blinked uneasily, "but... how?"

Draco surveyed the condition of his fingernails, far more outraged at the tipped chip than he probably should have been. In all honesty, he had understood the cause for Potter and his slimy friend Weasley's actions. However, he did not see why they just HAD to beat him to a bloody pulp. He seethed at his bleeding fingers, felt a bit more heated as he kicked off his other polished oxford wildly. "They got your_letter_, Granger- even sent one back," said Draco rather harshly.

Hermione's eyes widened. Her mouth dropped when she asked, "what did it say?"

"It told me to meet them in the clearing in the woods by my house. What it _didn't_ inform me was what they'd planned on doing to me when I'd arrived there." Draco's face contorted as he tried to rub off the smear of dried blood from his shin. Then, he mumbled to himself, "bloody _Potter_."

Hermione remained oddly quiet for a moment and then, blinking, she looked up at Draco, dumbfounded. "What?" she asked, innocently, "they weren't friendly towards you?"

"No, they were _not_, _friendly_, as a matter of fact," Draco retorted, writhing once he made the slightest attempt to move his injured arm.

"But," Hermione counteracted, appearing truly concerned, "they should have read my letter!"

"Perhaps he skims?" said Draco irritatedly.

The Gryffindor put on a somewhat apologetic face, though her brows remained furrowed, as if she truly had not expected such a reaction from the two of them. Shaking her head, Hermione looked back into Draco's narrowed eyes as she informed him, "I explained to them the most I could in that letter... I said they could trust you!"

Scoffing, Draco lifted his skinned wrists. Pink with a newly forming rash, he showed her where his flesh had been rubbed open with a glare. "Yeah, well," Draco snorted, "load of good that did me."

"Oh," mused Hermione, her face falling. She chewed on her bottom lip, watching Malfoy for a short while before glancing back down to her own two feet. "Sorry."

Draco glanced up; he certainly hadn't expected Hermione to apologize. Thus, watching her curiously, Draco let his wrists fall back down to his side and, in an act of spontaneous kindness, he let her little quip slide without retorting to answering her with an insult. Feeling jagged, Draco let his body relax against the stone wall behind him. He watched Hermione watch her feet, feeling the slight urge to tell her something, anything about what they'd planned. However, he found that he couldn't think of anything; the more he thought about informing her, the more and more useless the plan that Potter and Weasley had put together sounded.

Still, he wasn't quite certain he had time for anymore of the silence. It had taken him an entire hour to walk back to the Manor from the clearing; Crabbe's arrival back to the house was a threat and, unless he was torturing Hermione, he would have no other reason to be visiting her at all. "Potter and Weasley plan to continue to communicate through owl," Draco said blankly, as if reading off instructions. He saw the head that she'd hung low look up, peer at him slightly through the strands of her greasy brown hair. "They want to contact something called," Malfoy made a face, "'The _Order'_."

Hermione's face lifted slightly. She seemed satisfied with the idea, and hint of hope behind her otherwise tired eyes. She nodded silently, and then, when the plan had settled, she slipped her shaggy hair behind her ears peering up. Then she considered Draco for a very long time, her pupils locked almost invasively into him. She took in the slanted exterior of his torso, as well as the dark circles underneath his eyes. She noticed the way in which he held himself, still tall and proper as he had done back at Hogwarts pompously. Yet something new had been added to his rather superior stature. Despite containing only a hint of the essence of the rich boy Hermione had known him previously as, he could not mask the overwhelming notion of fear that his body took on. It showed in his eyes and his shoulders, showed in the way that he glanced down and avoided contact. She noticed the sting in his once icy stare had gone; now they only looked blank... empty.

He was looking back at her while she stared at him, his face twisted curiously as if trying to figure out what she had been so silently observing. For a moment he thought his face may have been covered in blood, even considered the possibility that he'd been missing a tooth. Thus, feeling almost overly scrutinized, Draco sneered down at Hermione with a harsh, "_what_?"

"Is it really that bad here for you?" she asked almost blatantly, her eyes watching him so tightly that Draco almost felt hot under the pressure. "I thought you were one of them... I thought these were your... people." Her confused expression glistened even in the lack of light. She looked so lost, but relieved that she had finally had the chance to ask him.

Malfoy's face remained. He studied her for a moment before glancing back up the stairs. The silence told him Crabbe had not come home yet and Goyle had already drank himself to sleep. In a bit of an aggravated whisper, Draco slightly spat, "do you always treat such epiphanies of your ignorance with unexpected surprise?"

"I just," mused Hermione, mulling the situation over in her head, "thought you would like living with-"

"Oh _yes_, Granger," retaliated Draco, "living with the Death Eaters is exactly my bread and butter."

"Why not?" Hermione continued curiously, still watching him at an almost uncomfortable level, "what's it _like_ here?"

Malfoy's lip curled. "use your imagination," he quipped, and all fell silent.

Once again Hermione cast her eyes down at her feet. She watched the laces of her untied shoes and the way they made little rope textured squiggles on the ground before her legs. However, she noted the hint of curled up beige at Malfoy's dark pocket and her eyes found his once more. "I see you've brought another sheet of parchment," she nodded, lifting her chin up to it in a soft gesture.

"Yeah, well," Draco nodded with a sarcastic raise of his eyebrows, "that _is_ the plan." With a slight jab, he thrust the sheet and quill out to Hermione who grabbed it, looking down at its surface quietly before placing it by her feet until she had found a moment to pen her thoughts to Harry and Ron down on it. However, she heard Malfoy then sigh, his hand diving back into the pocket of his trousers to retrieve something that she had not noticed before. "Here," he grumbled, and Hermione saw the green color of a bright and vibrant apple in the center of his palm.

"An apple?" Hermione asked dumbly, tilting her head to the side as if she hadn't expected the gesture after their previous soup fiasco.

"Ah," Draco huffed, "and they say you're 'bright'?"

Hermione glanced up at him and took the thing from his hands. Then she lifted it back up to him, as if a slight toast, and said meekly, "thank you."

Malfoy cocked up a single brow. "So now we're thankful?" he asked her with a roll of his gray eyes.

Hermione gave him a mild shrug. "Well, I just..." her soft voice broke off and she looked almost embarrassed to continue talking. "I thought about it and you were right... about before." Hermione rubbed her other hand over the top of the apple, looking down at it as she spoke to him. "I'm sorry I wasn't appreciative. You didn't deserve that."

Draco's face twisted, grimacing slightly before falling with an almost strange numbness. "Right, well," he said back to her, smoothing out his hair. He sniffed, glancing to the side of the Cellar and pressing his back against the stone wall behind him. He tried to act casual, as if her apology had not truly made him feel a bit more indifferent towards her. "Eat it before Crabbe sees you." Hermione gave him a slight smile and Draco felt winded. He remained looking away, not certain if he had wanted to see her smile at him at all. This was Hermione Granger he was speaking to; they had never seen on the same level. Feeling a sense of equality with her only made him anxious to leave her space quicker.

However, Hermione only leaned back against the wall and turned back to the parchment, picking the feathery quill up with her fingers accordingly. She contemplated her message, ran through the things she could write to Harry in her head before she inked it on the sheet before her. And, so lost within her train of thought was she that she didn't notice Draco as he took a seat on the first step at the bottom of the Cellar's staircase. He used the stone for support, crookedly bending down to the ground as he turned back to the gash on his ankle and surveyed it alone.

He heard the scratching of the tip of the quill against the ground, took the moment to think. He thought of what he was doing and what he'd become. He was a blood traitor now; he was everything his father and the Death Eaters despised. A great swell of bitterness ran through his chest and he couldn't decide what he thought about the situation, couldn't decide whether or not he was making the right decision. Only a couple years ago he would have died before helping out Hermione Granger, would never have even thought about it. Now... now was different. 'Now' was something Draco couldn't even figure out.

When the sound of Hermione's writing stopped, Draco saw her roll the thing back towards him, watched the scroll slide across the floor and collide to his feet. He swallowed and plucked the thing up without reading it, folding it up into a small square before tucking it into the pocket of his bloody trousers. Hermione fondled her fingers for a moment, twiddling them in her lap before clearing her throat. "I am," she muttered, tilting her head to get a better look at the Slytherin across from her, "thankful for _this_, too, Malfoy. Just so you know, I... I appreciate it, I really do."

"Fine," Malfoy mumbled, and Hermione turned back to her untouched apple.

"I just wish I understood," she added as if she were talking to no one but herself. "I wish I knew what changed your mind."

"Does it matter?" Malfoy asked, his voice sharp, "I just don't like it here. I've changed my mind about a few things, okay?"

Hermione lifted her chin, looking almost shocked. "You've changed your mind about Muggles and the War?" she asked hoarsely.

"I've changed my mind about many things, Granger, let's not dive into the specifics," hissed Draco, and Hermione nodded but looked almost fractionally unsatisfied.

The smell of the decaying corpse remained ever so present in the Cellar around the two of them. Though Hermione's face was relaxed as if she had gotten used to it, Draco couldn't help but feel sick at even the slightest hint of it. He wondered how many times Hermione had woken up face-to-face with it, his body giving an involuntary shudder as the thought about its ghastly condition. "What do you think they'll do if they find out?" Hermione questioned on, her voice slow as if she were uncertain about asking in the first place. "The Death Eaters, I mean...?" Malfoy only snot her a bitter glance, his face pale as he considered her question. They both knew the answer to her inquiry- she didn't even really have to ask. "Right," Hermione mumbled, and she ran her hand through her hair nervously. "Sorry."

Only huffing, Draco slouched back into his knees. He heard her breathing from across the room, ran a hand through his hair and did the same in silence. Truth be told, he wasn't exactly sure why he was sitting down in the Cellar with Hermione. He had a bed upstairs, a couch that was perfectly comfortable in the long run. And while Draco Malfoy tried to list off a number of excuses in his head, he blocked out the notion that he liked her company- because he didn't. He didn't, and he told himself he was just resting there, anyways.

Nonetheless, he couldn't deny how strange it had been sharing something of a common goal with Hermione. And perhaps he'd felt inclined to stay just for that fact alone- they both wanted a release. Draco moaned miserably into his hands, wondering if Hermione had heard his groan. He'd never wanted to feel close enough to surpass the boundaries of acquaintances with Hermione, but... considering the circumstances...

The girl's body gave a mild little twitch. She smoothed back her hair and looked up at him so minutely that Draco wasn't even sure she'd meant to make eye contact. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I hope you don't get caught," Hermione said, this time a bit more rushed. Her face flushed when she said it and she glanced down, as if speaking to no one but her shoes.

"Of course not," Malfoy responded, informing her nonchalantly, "_me_ getting caught insures _you_ getting killed."

Yet Hermione shook her head. "That's not what I meant," she told him. Malfoy only glanced back down to his shoes, his face slate-like, as if he were not too keen with the idea of a continual conversation. Still, Hermione added, "I just mean, if we do get out of here, you'll get a second chance." Her shyness increased drastically, "that's all I meant." Draco's eyes narrowed. He stared daggers into the stone floor beneath him. Hermione Granger hoped that he, Draco Malfoy, were to get a second chance? Not only was the hope a bit too cliche for his taste, but, he had to admit, it was also vaguely unrealistic. With the Ministry of Magic reformed, he would be lucky to make it out of the War alive. Malfoy wasn't naive- he was an enemy of both sides of the War, not just the Death Eaters now. Snorting, Draco placed his hands on his shoulders. He sat in a hunch for a long time before Hermione asked again quietly, "you don't think you'll get one?"

"I'll be _lucky_ if I get prison time in Azkaban," he said, annoyed.

Once again, Hermione's head swayed back and forth. "Not if Harry tells them what you're doing for me," she said with only the slightest hint of unease. She spoke as if trying to convince herself.

"Ah, well," Malfoy bemused, digging his fingernails into his shoulders, "let us hope that the Ministry has mercy on me to please their Golden Boy."

Hermione made a face, but did not answer him back straight away. For a second she sat lingering, and then, only when Draco had relaxed a bit, she started again. "Is that all you're looking forward to, then?" asked Hermione, lines forming across her white forehead, "a _prison _cell in Azkaban?"

Considering her inquiry, Draco stared away from her into the darkness. A prison cell in Azkaban would have been an improvement from the living conditions that the Death Eaters would put him in. A prison cell was better than Hermione's fate, was better than ending up six feet under, a dead and rotting corpse. But Malfoy had more to look forward to than a bloody cell and years of solitude confided within it. No, he also had the Kiss to worry about, a trail to endure. He foresaw a life of his face on the cover of newspapers, the headlines spitting nasty things, the entire Wizarding World awaiting a verdict. He'd be the talk of the place, too; that Malfoy boy, the son of the Death Eater, Lucius. Perhaps they'd spare him because of what he did for Granger and her stupid little dream team; Draco Malfoy just wasn't ready to die.

And such a life was only realistic if he had succeeded in getting himself and Granger out alive. He shuddered in thought of his other option, at the thought of torture and captivity and of never seeing the light of day again. He'd die a beaten-up corpse where he'd be found in pieces throughout the streets of Hogsmeade. He'd be unrecognizable by the time the Ministry had gathered up all his bits. And when they finally would identify him, no one would mourn the loss.

Still, he looked forward to the days in which he did not have to dread sleep, for the nights that did not bring to him nightmares of dead Muggles, for the days where he did not have to see the figure of a pleading Dumbledore standing above his bed, haunting his conscience. He didn't tell Hermione that. What he told her was, "it'll be better than living here," and felt satisfied with his lack of a sufficient answer.

"So, all you've got to look forward to is 'settling'?" Hermione shot back, almost coldly as if she had made it a point to try and lift his spirits. Draco mumbled incoherently into his palms. He loathed Gryffindors and their insufferable optimism. Hermione was only speaking in cliches. "... That's not even motivating," she offered, raising her shoulders and looking sincerely frustrated. The wetness in her eyes made Draco think she pitied him and a flame of burning rage flickered up in his chest.

"How is the desire not to _die_ for motivation?" he writhed, and Hermione's face fell flat.

She waited a moment until she said softly, "I'm sorry that you've had to go through all of this."

Malfoy let his palm fall over his mouth, sweaty and wet. Through the wall of his wiry fingers, Draco counteracted, "I don't need your sympathy."

"It's not sympathy," Hermione continued, sounding distant and timid.

Reddening, Draco snapped, "well, what is it then?" He placed his palm under his chin, glaring at her through the haziness of the dark. The scent of the deceased body in the corner was making his head spin, but he managed to stick out the awful smell of everything around him. His eyes caught the glistening of the tiny metal toilet in the corner of the room behind the pillars and his own swell of sorrow ran through him. He masked it by narrowing his gray eyes.

"I dunno what it is, Malfoy," Hermione said to him, her brow lowered as she tried to place a name on it herself. "It's just sad."

Sad. Malfoy's palm faltered. Out of all the words in the world that the girl could have chosen to describe what she had meant, she had chosen the word 'sad'? Draco felt a sense of twisting rage in his entire being and he really, _really_ did not want to be the object of her pity. "Fucking _Hell, _Granger," Malfoy hissed. He huffed, tossing his eyes and leaning against the wall to pick himself up from the ground. He made sure that Hermione's newest letter was in his trouser pocket before he managed to stumble back up to the first couple steps. Before jerking his head angrily to the bright green orb at the side of her hips, Malfoy let his own voice sound cold as he commanded her, "eat your bloody apple."

Then he headed towards the steps again, his hands trailing against the wall so that he could garner for himself a proper amount of support. He heard Hermione stir behind him, her tone of voice almost broken when she called up to him, "wait! W-W... Where are you going?"

He turned back to look at her to find her eyes wet once again, perhaps overwhelmed by the very 'sadness' she had been telling him about. He stared at her blankly, his heart pounding hard behind his sore sternum, and he wasn't sure what to think of her. Before all of this, he would have laughed, would have loved to see the salty sight of her tears welling up in her large brown eyes. But now was different. It wasn't as if he felt sorry for her, or affected by her grim expression, yet something else trailed at his feelings- a ghost of something else, some other emotion entirely. He was curious about it, but he wasn't exactly sure why.

"I'm going to send your letter," Malfoy retorted, gesturing towards the thing as it struck out slightly from his garments. His visage was twisted with annoyance as he sarcastically waited for her approval. Hermione's teeth bit down on her lower lip, chewing it and making it bulge out responsively. Her eyes glanced Draco up and down and she chose to not respond. Instead, she remained sadly stone faced as she scrutinized Draco, awaiting his answer. When Malfoy realized that he was not going to get one, however, he rolled his eyes for the last time in the night. His shoulders fell slightly and he turned back on his heel, climbing up towards the top of the steps as he felt the stare of Hermione's eyes on his jagged back.

Nonetheless, he ignored the desire to turn around and snap at her. Instead, he climbed to the top of his destination, lifted his wand, and pulled the door open quickly before slamming it shut and staring out into the living room that he had only just passed through.

He relished at the image of his solitude; Goyle was nowhere to be seen, and Crabbe's absence was almost completely reassuring. And, limping, Draco kept his head low as he slipped towards the backyard, his coat pulled over the parchment in his pocket, his feet almost child-like as he stumbled over them nervously.

Yet he pulled open the kissing doors to the yard and stared out into the darkness that greeted him wearily. He surveyed the scene, eyeing the small owl that sat at the balcony in waiting. It turned to him beautifully, its large eyes locked upon him like daggers. The lovely animal knew why he had come there, sat patiently as it took in the sight of him as well. And Draco wondered when exactly he had come to the role of the Middle Man, the Messenger. Even the owl knew about him, even the owl seemed content with his new place- Secret Keeper, Unwilling Protector.

Frowning, Draco shoved Hermione's letter into the owl's face, watching it slowly take it as if secretly enjoying the suffering it witnessed. Once the letter was in place in its beak, the owl tilted its head once at Malfoy, eyes scrutinizing. "What?" Malfoy hissed back at the bird, feeling a slightly overbearing urge to strangle it. "What the bloody hell are you looking at?"

The owl did not answer him back. Only, it allowed its pretty little head to turn back to the other side, a slight "_hoo," _emitting from its parchment-filled mouth.

Draco shoved his hands into his pockets, glaring down at the white beast. He gritted his teeth as he watched it, taking in the sight of its blank gaze before the thing gave a final little shift, taking off into the night once and for all. And Malfoy watched it go, watched the way that the white spec shrank smaller and smaller into the night before vanishing completely. He even stood still for a moment, his eyes caught in wonderment at the black sky and the way that the trees of his family's grand yard made crooked little shadows across the emerald grass before him. In the night, his mother's gorgeous peacock made a swift appearance and Malfoy caught it stick its head out from the brush to strut pompously across the stretch of grass as if putting on a show.

He remembered a nightmare he'd had once, about the yard and about the peacock. In it, he'd been wandering through by the fountain, watching the water as it sprouted out in vibrant dances when he'd saw the reflection of the snake-like man known as Lord Voldemort from the water as he peered over his shoulder. Wincing, he remembered the way that his dream had shifted; Narcissa's prized pet had stopped walking in vain. Instead, the peacock now lay on the grass bloody and torn open, its face contorted in an almost human-like terror as it bleed onto the vast amount of emerald. It was a dream he'd had more than often, a dream that involved Voldemort and his slithering snake, and the Dark Lord's chilled hand as it wrapped around Draco's own bare and exposed neck.

Despite his current state of consciousness, Draco could almost hear the rasp of Voldemort's high-pitched voice when he breathed, _"hello, Draco..."_

Malfoy turned back to the fountain, shaking the image of his unforgettable dream from his mind. The Dark Lord was gone for the time being and such a visit was improbable. He suppressed the cold shudder that ran down his spine, felt weak almost at the thought of waking up night after night in a cold sweat. He recalled a time when he'd wanted this... wanted more than anything to be Marked, to be one of Voldemort's faithful Death Eaters. Yet he had not received a single thing he had wished for. He wished he was careful. He wished, above everything, he had never dabbled in the dark in the first place.

Nausea overtook him as he tried pridefully to swallow his own guilt. Regret was unbecoming and he'd known it. What would his father think? Would his resistance make his mother cry? Would his parents disown him if they knew? Would they side with those that they had always known? The possibilities chilled Draco Malfoy to the very core and, peering down into the water of the fountain before him, Draco let his fingers trail the liquid's surface as he gracefully distorted the reflection that was his face.

"Hello, Draco..."

Malfoy's body went rigid. Spinning around, Draco's heart skipped several beats. His fingers flew to the wand in his pocket and his blond hair fell across his sweaty forehead as he rearranged himself, chest heaving. He lifted his weapon to protect himself, ignoring the terrified sound that came from his throat unwillingly. He braced himself for the half-deceased man, for the Dark Lord to have seen him send his letter off into the night. His nightmare, he feared, now a very real reality.

However, he only found himself face-to-face with the large shadow of Vincent Crabbe. The boy stared at him curiously, his eyes narrowed with uncertainty. And Draco only remained still, his wand outstretched, and his eyes wide with fear that did not falter despite the rush of relief that flowed through his chest. "Whoa!" Crabbe breathed, lifting his arms in mock surrender. There was no sign of fear on his face. Instead, he only tilted his head with utter curiosity. Nonetheless, he continued to show Draco his raised palms. "Bit jumpy tonight, aren't you, Draco?" Crabbe asked.

Draco watched Crabbe intently, his face flushing with slight embarrassment. Letting his wand drop, Draco tried to steady his shakes. "You snuck up on me," Draco said defensively, and ignored the smile that took over Crabbe's pudgy face.

"Yeah," he said simply, a dry chuckle escaping him, "sorry about that, mate. I just got home." He did not look apologetic. Rather, something strange flickered in Crabbe's eyes and Draco wasn't certain as to what it was. Only, he dropped his shoulders and allowed his body time to collect himself.

"You can't do that," Malfoy said, narrowing his gaze. He was, of course, rather grateful that the bird had already taken its flight. "You can't sneak up on me like that, Crabbe."

Crabbe's smile flickered. "Alright," he said back to his blond friend, "I won't sneak up on you anymore, Draco." Then he fell silent, lifting up an eyebrow as if to show Draco how simple the whole agreement could be. And Malfoy only remained staring, letting his eyes drop the very moment he realized that, despite everything, he had nothing better to respond back with. "Food is in the kitchen," Crabbe spoke again, taking note of Malfoy's silence. He changed the subject so swiftly and Draco found himself almost oddly impressed. "Liquor, too."

Shifting his feet, Draco hoped Crabbe wouldn't notice the wetness of his bloody clothing. "Err..." he began wearily, "thanks."

Malfoy felt his stomach rumble and Crabbe's smile shot up. In his fear, Draco had almost forgotten how hungry he'd been. Nonetheless, he looked up to made second eye contact with Crabbe, who remained gleaming. He looked almost friendly to Draco, his eyes twinkling in the shimmer of the moonlight. Ever since he and Crabbe had made peace since their last argument, Draco had noticed the way in which the boy had made an effort. He didn't seem to try and pick fights, didn't seem to nag Draco about anything lately at all. It was a strange new change in Crabbe's behavior, and Malfoy wasn't sure whether to be overjoyed or horrified. At the moment, he remained oddly still as he returned Crabbe's intense stare.

"Are you hungry?" offered the larger of the two, casually. He seemed happy and content, as if there was nothing bothering him about their situation at the Manor at all and the fact made Draco uneasy. "I don't think you've consumed a single thing expect alcohol over the past few days." Draco blinked; Crabbe was probably right. At the realization of his lack of nutrition, Draco wondered how he could have possibly forgotten to feed himself. Crabbe, on the other hand, simply beamed. "Well, we'll make dinner," he said, solving the problem simply.

Nodding, Draco could not help but think himself foolish. Perhaps he was over thinking the whole 'Crabbe' issue. Perhaps the boy was only truly trying to make amends. Being jittery and suspicious was not going to get him anywhere; he was only scaring himself. Feeling foolish, Malfoy raked his hand through his blond hair. "I'm sorry, Crabbe," he said, trying hard to relax himself, "about earlier... you snuck up on me and I thought you were someone else." He wasn't exactly sure why he had opted on giving the boy an explanation, but something urged him to do so. He settled with the fact that he truly wanted to settle any grievances he'd had with him.

"Don't worry about it," Crabbe quipped, reaching down to lift his hand and clamp Draco on the back. A sense of relaxation overtook Draco slightly. He felt comfortable. "Your house is big enough to run the imagination wild," he said, reassuring Draco with friendly condolences.

A smile tugged at Draco's lips. He wondered why he'd ever thought badly of Crabbe. Sure, the boy had thought about some things differently than Draco, but that did not make him malicious. In fact, Draco took to suddenly considering Crabbe admirable. And why not? The boy had done everything that he, Draco Malfoy, had not been able to do. He hadn't been afraid of becoming a Death Eater, hadn't been unable to complete the tasks that he had been ordered to do. Over the course of the long months that he, Crabbe, and Goyle had been kept at the Manor, it had always been Crabbe that had been the most promising. And the boy was good at what he did... would make a fantastic Death Eater one day.

Despite the longing for a friend on his side of things, Draco couldn't help but feel inferior.

Crabbe looked out into the yard. His eyes stretched along the vast amount of grass that pulled out into the woods beyond the Manor. "I'd like to talk to you first, though," the boy said, tightening his grip slightly. The gesture was meant to be a warm one, but Draco only stared back up at Cabbe with confusion. Crabbe's face was not hostile, however. Instead, he remained smiling simply, his expression tender and soft. "Could we talk now, Draco?" Crabbe asked, rearranging his previous command as a far kinder question, "before dinner?"

Malfoy followed Crabbe's gaze out into the woods. "Err..." he started, wondering why Crabbe's voice had become a low whisper, "sure."

"I'll be quick," Crabbe winked, patting Draco's shoulder again before darting towards the winding marble steps that led out to the Manor's florescent garden, "I promise." Then he cocked his chin outwards and lifted an eyebrow, waiting for Malfoy to make his first move. He did not seem to notice the strange way that his mate's face drained when he glanced back towards the house.

Then, when Malfoy's lower eyelid twitched upwards, Crabbe's smile broadened when he heard his fellow Slytherin mutter, "okay..."

Crabbe chuckled warmly, "well don't just stand there!" he offered, tugging on his coat to bring the collar up to his ears. "Come on!"

He watched Draco slip forward on the marble balcony, his hands in his pockets as he parted from the Manor, his shoulders lowered as he reached the first step. When the boy looked back over his shoulder one last time, Crabbe's pace took up again. And he remained in his stride a bit ahead of Malofy's, his coat flowing behind him as he walked across the yard, hearing the crunch of leaves that Malfoy's feet made behind him.

Thus, for the second time, Draco made his way out into the woods towards the night. This time, however, he wished he had gone alone.

* * *

**Vonne: **I'm sorry that this chapter was a bit shorter than the previous ones. I promise that this will not be a trend. Happy New Year, everyone! I hope that you have a wonderful year!


	11. Pressure

**Vonne:** My first non-Dead Man's Bones chapter. I've decided to break the trend in order to squeeze in a bit of David Bowie and Queen into the mix. Unfortunately, this is going to be a shorter chapter, compared to the lengthy ones that I've been penning down over the past couple days. I promise to make chapter thirteen very long, as well as the ones after that. Thank you for your continual interest! I received so many reviews on the last chapter that I was just floored. Thank you all so much, I appreciate it a lot!

Thank you for all of you that submitted a review to me for the last chapter: **Stupidamericanidoms91**, **Pearlrose33**, **Corey Fitzwilliam**, **Forbiddenluv**, **Wopsidaisy**, **Isabella120**, **SauerKirsche** (thanks so much for your compliments! I'm so glad you like this so far), **RandomObsessivePsychoFangirl** (thank you so much for the compliments, they were appreciated!), **TragicSlytherin**, **Sarah**, and **Spike4561**. All of you had such nice things to say, I wish I had time to respond back. Next time, I swear!

I didn't have much time to respond back to everyone this week, but I did want to tell you, **Spike4561 **specifically, that Goyle will get development as I continue this. I promise! ;)  
And thank you, **TragicSlytherin**, your long review made my day!

* * *

_"It's the terror knowing what this world is about, watching some good men scream, 'let me out!'."_

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**Chapter Eleven:**  
**Pressure**

Malfoy was counting his steps. Gray eyes watched the way in which his feet slipped over the ground of the forest, every so often glancing up at the sky to see the ways in which it had changed. His heart pounded as they came closer and closer to the clearing, wondering where that stupid Potter and his annoying friend Weasley had gone off to. For his own sake, he hoped they'd had enough brains to leave the woods behind the Manor; Crabbe was leading them closer now, and every step made Draco's head thunder.

He was on his three hundred and something step when his leader suddenly froze in his stride. Draco heard the scuff of Crabbe's feet against the leaves as he finally did stop walking. He crunched the life beneath him with the soles of his shoes and Malfoy was almost certain that he'd head the screams of the crushed bugs that Crabbe's weight had squeezed the life from. For a second, though it was a silly thought, Draco wondered if Crabbe had done it on purpose.

Nonetheless, the expression on the chubbier boy's face was casual, as if he hadn't even thought twice about the nonchalant killing. "Ever been out here, Draco?" Crabbe asked, his smile still ever so present. He made no move to retrieve his wand. Rather, he only stood in front of Malfoy with a smile and a pair of dark twinkling eyes. He begged for confirmation, "it's nice out here, isn't it?"

Nice? Malfoy surveyed the scene; everything smelled like pine and the entire grounds were deserted. All in all, Draco did quite enjoy the clearing himself, but he was certain that the outdoors was not exactly Vincent Crabbe's cup of tea. He wondered how Crabbe had missed the days when Draco had wandered out into the clearing alone; such trips by himself had been almost too common as of lately. However, Crabbe's question only made Draco backtrack. Perhaps he'd go along with it, perhaps he'd pretend like he'd never seen the space before in his entire life.

"It's..." Draco started off, watching Crabbe's curious complexion. He ended up choosing an adjective that better described his opinion on Crabbe's recent attitude rather than on the forest at all. "It's interesting," he decided, thumbing the wand in his pocket with his fingers.

Crabbe didn't seem to catch on at all. Instead, he breathed in powerfully, as if taking a huge whiff of the fresh air around him. Draco felt numb; Crabbe had never been a nature enthusiast. "It's nice to get out of the Manor, though," he said, but his tone of voice rose up, as if a question.

Considering Crabbe's stance, Draco shifted his weight. He tried to appear less suspicious and more open-minded. Crabbe was right, anyway; it was nice to get out of the Manor. Now-a-days, all that the beautiful house reminded him of was death, and dead bodies, and shadows that lingered and never quite left. The hallways reeked of decaying flesh and no matter how hard he tried, the smell of liquor just would not fade from his bedroom. Crabbe was right; getting out of the Manor... it felt 'nice'.

Draco cleared his throat, relaxing almost too eagerly. "Yeah," he agreed, "less _pressure_, and all that."

The very moment Draco had said it, Crabbe's shoulders plummeted. He looked so relieved, his face morphing greatly as an even broader smile appeared along his visage. "Yes!" he breathed, "exactly, Draco,_ exactly_!" he struck a sausage-like finger out towards Malfoy, who only watched the many expressions Crabbe had suddenly taken on. "_Less pressure_! That's," he continued, "that's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about!"

"You wanted to talk to me about pressure?" Draco found himself asking.

Pressure; Draco Malfoy was certainly not a stranger to it. However, he wondered quickly what Crabbe may have wanted to talk to him about it for. Though he loathed himself for it, he was reminded of that Muggle song he had heard once on the train-ride to Hogwarts by some Bowie... Queen, or something. Lavender Brown had been blasting it through the compartments of the nearest lift and ever since Draco could not get the lyrics out of his head. Yet, when the song came flooding back to him at this moment, he couldn't help but try to piece together the puzzle that Crabbe had posed for him. Wasn't pressure supposed to burn down buildings and put people on the streets? Wasn't it supposed to 'split people in two'?

Draco Malfoy was confused. Considering the circumstances, he, Crabbe, had been doing fine under all of the stress. He didn't even _act _like it was affecting him.

"I wanted to talk to you about _handling_ it," Crabbe explained. He wasn't smiling anymore, but his grimace still looked slightly light; he tried to offer the notion that he did not posing a threat. He paused for a second, watching Draco's lower eyelid lift with uncertainty. Still, he found satisfaction in the way that Malfoy didn't move. Instead, the blond remained put, his hands at his sides, almost ready to listen to whatever it was that Crabbe had been suggesting. Yet he waited a few minutes, leaning back against the nearest tree trunk slowly. He looked almost sincere when he asked, "how've you been handing it?"

Almost too quickly, Draco answered, "I've been handling it fine," and Crabbe noted the way that Malfoy watched his face impatiently for a response.

"What about Goyle?" Crabbe asked, his forehead wrinkling in concern. "Have you talked to him lately?"

Malfoy swallowed. The last time he'd talked to Goyle, the boy had seemed to have a change of heart. Granted, he wasn't exactly the picture perfect Death Eater yet, but he still seemed to have garnered an entirely new understanding of the situation for himself. "He seemed," Draco started, almost instinctually lying for the sake of Gregory Goyle, whom he had become accustomed towards covering up for for several years, "better. He's getting used to the idea." Malfoy's feet remained on the ground, rooting him there. "He wants to be a Death Eater."

Crabbe made a face, as if almost honestly confused. "Did he tell you that?" he asked Malfoy, almost a bit hurt that he had not been informed of Goyle's revelation himself.

"Yeah," Draco nodded, feeling a bit relieved that he could make Goyle seem less of an outlier, "recently."

"Huh." It was the only sound that Crabbe could think to make and, afterwards, he stood with his hands behind his back, jetting out into two sharp points at his elbows. He looked around the clearing while Draco watched him and then, when he glanced back, his eyes were narrowed with innocent speculation. "And what about yourself?" he asked, his voice not dark or suspicious. He talked to him like he talked to a friend and Draco found it both intimidating and unnerving all at once.

"Me?" Draco asked, feeling slightly shaken.

Crabbe lifted his shoulders. "Well, yeah, mate," he said, "I'm just wondering, you know, because the War is coming soon." He tilted his head when he said it, as if everything were just that easy. "It's right around the corner and I just want to make sure-"

"It's not a problem for me," Malfoy quipped suddenly, his heart pounding obnoxiously in his chest. Was this what Crabbe had led him out into the forest for? To test his commitment? Malfoy felt a wave of bitterness flood through him before he swallowed it back down quickly. He wasn't angry, he wasn't anything; just numb because this was the second time Crabbe had asked him and he wondered if, even slightly, the boy had noticed something a bit off.

However, if Crabbe did, then he certainly didn't let on. "What if," he asked, his tone only slightly more serious now. He no longer sported the ghost of a smile on his lips. Instead, he resembled more of a statue, his gaze stone-like and unbreakable. "What if you were asked to prove it?"

Malfoy felt his stomach twist. "What do you mean?" he found himself asking in a voice that was far smaller than his own. He thought back to the time when he would have socked Crabbe in the face for challenging him like that. But these were different times and now he had something to hide and nothing was the same anymore.

"I mean like," Crabbe continued, "if the day finally came to it... if it finally came to something like that." Crabbe's expression was blank, tasteless. "Could you?"

Draco watched Crabbe for a very long time. He watched the round outline of his fat face and the way that his beady little eyes sparkled back at him in the lack of light. He realized then that their meeting in the woods was all about this moment, this very question. Crabbe had been waiting to ask him, had been dying for an answer. And, all the while, the amount of overwhelming friendliness that he had claimed before had gone. Only faintly had it remained on his face, now almost completely overshadowed by the serious iciness of the situation.

Malfoy tried to twist his face, tried to channel the inner Malfoy that he had lost so long ago. Still, he looked down at Crabbe through the bridge of his pointed nose and said in a voice that was delicately pompous, "of _course_ I could bloody well prove it, Crabbe."

Crabbe glanced up, slipping his head to the side. "Yeah?" he asked, his last heart-felt challenge of the night.

Malfoy's body buzzed. "'Course," he spat, practiced.

He felt the empty bottle of Potter's antiserum in his pocket. That bastard Potter; he was lucky that Draco had downed the vile the very moment he had reentered the house that evening or their entire plan would have gone to shit.

"Good!" Crabbe exclaimed. He beamed once again, "I thought so, Draco, I really did."

Draco's face contorted. He looked almost like his old self again. "Is that everything?"

Crabbe clamped his hands together; he, on the other hand, looked nothing like his old set at all. "That's it!" he smiled. "I bet Goyle's _dying _to stuff his face, don't you? All that food in the kitchen is probably killing him." He smirked, as if everything had been settled and, with Draco's promise in place, there was nothing else to worry about.

He waited for Draco to give him an answer, any answer, as if any sort of noise from the blond had been vital to him. Sensing this, Draco murmured a quick, "right," and Goyle slipped from his stature on the bed of leaves and grabbed Draco's lowered shoulders with a soaring arm. He started off in conversation in no time- because, after all, they were friends, weren't they? However, as Draco allowed himself to be dragged gently back to the mansion at the end of the brush, his eyes caught sight of something floating around the sky above them.

It was the owl, the one he had only just sent out not an hour ago. It swooped by the two of them, unseen in the air by Crabbe, and headed off above the trees towards the Manor in a hurry. And Draco felt his face drain and his veins run cold. He prayed for a miracle, among other things he did not deserve. He prayed for a diversion or the coincidental occurrence of a branch that the putrid animal could hit on the way over.

"Err, Crabbe?" Draco said, slipping away from underneath the big lug of an arm that the boy had him poised into.

Crabbe sniffed casually, turning around only half way so that his pudgy face was only just visible over his equally as pudgy shoulder. "Yeah?"

The bloody beast flew around at the ceiling of the forest for a moment and Draco fingered the width of his slender wand. "I'll meet you back at the Manor in a second-"

"What for?" Crabbe asked inquisitively, his large head slipping over to one side curiously.

"Spell practice," Draco lied; he saw the bird out from the corner of his eye. He only had a few more moments until he could shoot it down.

For a moment, the ignorant of the two stood, his eyes locked upon Draco Malfoy wearily before flinching back into reality. He didn't seem any wiser; nothing had seemed to spark his curiosity and, if it had, he hadn't shown it in the slightest. "For Granger, huh?" he asked devilishly, but narrowed his eyes back at Malfoy as if he were sharing nothing more than an insider joke. Though Draco did not say a word, Crabbe's smile only doubled. "Alright," he said, slipping away from the woods to raise his hand and swipe the air in front of him; no big deal, his action said, take all the time you need. "I'm going to go feed Goyle," he said simply, his figure vanishing behind the mass cluster of trees, "he'd probably dying of starvation."

And with that, Crabbed figure was gone. Taking his solitude as an advantage, Draco's eyes scanned the brush. He saw the owl, directing his wand back up at it with his fingers held tight. _"Descendo!"_ he whispered and the owl in the air was caught on impact by the spell. Fast, as if pulled downwards by some unseen force, the winged animal propelled down to the ground towards Draco Malfoy, only to be stopped just before the ground as if frozen there on the spot.

Malfoy watched the bird's little wings flap furiously as it was held there. Glancing around, Draco bent down low and retrieved the package from between the thing's nail-like beak. He clutched the envelope between his numb fingers, feeling something large and bulky beneath the flimsy paper. However, he did not waste any time wondering what it could have possibly been. Instead, relieved to have escaped the terror of having to pry a letter from Harry fucking Potter out of Vincent Crabbe's hands, he released the spell and even felt too gracious to complain when the bird offered him an angry little peck on his hand before spreading its wings and taking flight again.

He took refuge in the ground for a slight while, breathing out into the cold, stale air as he stuffed the bulky letter back into the pocket of his coat. Bloody Potter and his bad timing. Draco promised he'd get him back for that, for almost ruining everything they had only just set up. While that fucking Golden Boy and his side-kick were wandering around playing hide-and-go-seek with the Death Eaters, he, Draco Malfoy, was risking his life so that the couple could play pen pals.

Brilliant. Fucking brilliant. And funny enough, Draco had once thought his talents would eventually be put to good use.

Collecting himself into a fractionally proper stature, Draco tried to ignore the remaining limp in his side and the wonky way in which he carried himself back towards the Manor. _Malfoy the fucking messenger,_ he thought bitterly, _what a waste of potential._

* * *

Malfoy was beginning to feel like a flasher, with all the things he kept under his coat.

At the time, he had been lugging around five: two cups of water, two hastily-prepared sandwiches, and the package from Potter. As he stumbled down the stone staircase to the Cellar, he couldn't mask the hint of pride he had taken upon himself for even managing to balance it all there without being caught by Crabbe or Goyle in the process. However, his flare of adoration for himself died quickly once he realized how pathetic it had been. "_See the Great Draco Malfoy and his amazing balancing act!", _a loud voice echoed mockingly in his head, "_he'll be here all week!"_

Great. So now he had not only turned into a delivery man, but he was also preforming tricks. How life could be so cruel.

"Here," Malfoy mumbled, opening his coat to levitate the items underneath his heavy clothes with his wand. The water cups danced slowly before sinking to the floor, along with a single sandwich. In front of him, Hermione Granger only tilted her head, turning back to the healthy-looking meal inquisitively before catching sight of the thick envelope that remained airborne. He had opened it, and she could tell by the frayed way in which the paper split. For a second, she resisted the urge to snap at him and tell him that such things were private, but when she laid eyes back on her sandwich, she chose instead to bite her tongue.

The last they'd talked, Draco's visit had not ended pleasantly, and Hermione certainly did not want to set Draco off again. Besides, she had come to admit that he had been at least minutely trying to figure himself out in the process. And she took to accepting his short attitude as just a simple side effect of the pressure that she was certain he was under. The inner battle between good and evil, she figured; it must have been a vicious one.

Nonetheless, Malfoy did not seem to appear as if he'd made peace with Hermione since their last argument. The look on his face was stiff and unimpressed, almost bitter in the way in which he stared at the items he'd brought to her. His face was pale and his stature was crooked, something she had come to expect of the boy over the course of his past several visits, and, more than anything, he looked as if he were not in the mood to strike up any sort of conversation.

However, the silence in the house signified to Hermione that it had been late; the other boys must have gone to sleep, and Hermione took the fact to her advantage. Despite the short fuse that Malfoy seemed to be struck with, she offered him a slight smile and nodded her head appreciatively. "Salami?" she asked, lifting an eyebrow. The slight smile that spread across her face made her look pretty still, despite the dirt. She leaned back against the stone wall before peeling the cellophane off of its exterior.

Malfoy tossed his eyes, grabbing his own sandwich and jabbing it into his fingers hastily. He didn't open it. Instead, he jerked his head towards Potter's already opened package and made a face laced with disgust. "It's better than the meal capsules Potter and Weasley sent you," he managed, allowing the letter to crookedly float down towards Hermione, who caught it and smiled dearly at it before emptying its contents into her opened palm. Draco made a face; meal capsules, he should have known when he'd first laid eyes on the thing. Well, he had to give it to them; at least the two were thinking ahead.

With her fingers, Hermione separated the capsules in her hand. Then, one by one, she placed the things into the pocket of her own pair of torn trousers. "That was very thoughtful of them," she muttered to no one but herself.

"What?" he asked, taking a seat opposite her, "you don't like salami?"

"No," Hermione shook her head, sniffing the sandwich before smiling again graciously, "salami's fine." Without another moment passing the two of them, she dove into the meal that Draco had prepared for her. Malfoy watched the shifting expressions of her face, first uneasy until it lifted with a hint of surprise. "It's good," she announced, laughing slightly as a dribble of yellow-white mustard crept out from her set of chapped lips, "thank you."

Casually, Malfoy leaned back against the steps he'd been lounging on. He had not taken a bite from his, but he lifted an eyebrow to watch Hermione devour hers. She had seemingly gotten used to the smell of the rotting body in the corner, but Draco knew that she must have been unfathomably hungry. It had been days since she had eaten anything and, no matter the stench, the dinner that Malfoy had prepared her would have to do. However, her eagerness had only fueled him. Replacing his blank expression with one that was only slightly more nonchalant, Draco narrowed his eyes and looked almost sleepy when he asked her, "don't think I poisoned it, do you?"

Hermione didn't even look up from her sandwich. "I know you didn't poison it, Malfoy," she laughed drily, as if she had expected such a remark somewhere along the lines of his visit.

Draco's posture faltered. "How can you be so sure, Granger?" he challenged her, waving around his own sandwich in the air as if proof. "I haven't even touched mine yet."

The girl's shoulders bobbed, lifting before falling carelessly. "I just know," she told him, "besides, I'm pretty sure I'd be dying right now if you did." She looked almost triumphant as she said it, reaching forward to wrap her hands around the cup of water he had brought to her before downing it and then looking back at him with a raised brow. "You're supposed to hex me silly, not _poison_ me to death, remember?"

Bloody Granger and her tendency to put together the pieces of any problematic puzzle. Once she was killed by the Death Eaters, would she still be considered the brightest witch of her age? He wondered this slyly as he rolled his eyes and turned away from her, ignored the amused girlish grin that spread across her face. "Yeah, well," Draco Malfoy retorted, his gray eyes locking into the sandwich at his lap, "looks like you'll be getting hexed by me any day now, so I'd enjoy the _food _while you can."

Mouth full of salami, Hermione made a face before swallowing the bite down completely. "What do you mean?" she asked him, pushing her bushy hair aside behind her ears.

"I _mean,_" Malfoy clarified blatantly, "Crabbe's asked me to _prove_ my commitment to the Death Eaters." He glanced up at her, pushed his skinny wand back into his coat pockets. Hermione's curious look only made him bitter. "Come on, Granger, you _do_ have the ability to piece two and two together, don't you?" he asked.

Blinking, Hermione spoke her mind. "But, you have to actually_ mean_ those hexes when you say them, don't you?" she questioned, putting her sandwich down at her lap. She had almost finished it completely.

Draco looked up, watching her carefully. "At the rate we're going, I probably _will_ grow to mean it," he spat, and any sort of happiness that Hermione had once carried about her had faltered instantly.

"You're going to have to mean it," Hermione murmured quietly, glancing down at her untied shoelaces. She did not appear to be as if she were sulking, only her ace scrunched up in a manner that showed how she knew it to be true.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, "and how would I go about doing that?" he hissed, before realizing that it sounded more like a compliment that he'd intended it to be.

"You could always focus on wanting to get out of here more than wanting not to hurt me?" she offered silently, and Draco snorted. However, he had no true answer for her comment, no matter how converted it had made him sound. With only a harmless toss of his eyes, Malfoy leaned his body backwards and chewed on his lower lip with aggravation in the black darkness. Hermione, however, glanced up at his silence, letting her face slip down into that of an annoyed grimace.

Hermione made a face, her visage contorting at the slightly hopeless grimace Draco was giving the stone wall to his left. "You know," she told him, leaning back and turning away from the last bit of her mean, "I'm trying to be nice and not to argue with you here, but you're making this very difficult!"

Malfoy made a hasty face. "Running your mouth is what you'd call 'trying to be nice'?" He almost looked sincerely perplexed at the casual notion.

Hermione Granger huffed, smoothing her own hair back readily. "You know," she said, ignoring his latest comment, "its not like it's that bloody difficult." She glanced down at her sandwich, a bit offended that he had actually insulted her. However, once she had taken a moment of silence to herself, she glanced back up at the boy with a slight hint of hurt in her eyes. He'd guessed that she had been secretly hoping that she had not struck him as that big of a bother to deal with. "Besides," she muttered, deflating as she finished the last bits of her meal, "I'm dealing with you perfectly fine."

Draco scoffed, unimpressed. "It's called Stockholm Syndrome," he mumbled, running a hand through his head of blond and shaggy hair.

"Well," Hermione sighed, looking all the more aggravated, "at least this will help you in your little _pickle_ with _Crabbe."_ Her expression morphed, disgusted. Malfoy glanced up; she was right, it would, and he decided to remain satisfied with that fact. However, when Hermione noticed that he was seriously contemplating her suggestion, she sunk back, shaking her head and mumbling to herself in annoyance, "_God..._"

Malfoy pulled aside the wrapping of his sandwich. He had only just begun to open it for himself. "Well," he said, almost cockily, as if he were slightly enjoying their back and forth quips, "it's not as if you have any other suggestions." Hermione's stomach growled and Draco only pretended not to notice. However, the noise stopped him from taking a bite into his meal.

"You're impossible," Hermione murmured, and Draco's smile soared.

Then, within the instant, Malfoy stumbled back to his feet. He had gotten used to leaving Hermione at such short notices and took secretly pleasure in watching her squirm for an explanation. She only watched him raise this time, a bit disappointed that she had not broken through to him, and pressed her back against the wall. "Here," she said softly, lightly tossing a folded note towards his feet. Malfoy only lifted his brows nonchalantly, bending down to retrieve it.

"What's this?" Draco asked, almost stupidly. The paper was frayed and torn in half; brilliantly, she had saved a fraction of the previous parchment he had given her in order to pen down another during Draco's absense.

"Harry's letter," Hermione answered, and when he pulled open the top of it to read it, Hermione's eyes widened. "Don't!" she whispered, "don't read it... that's my mail."

Twisting his features, Draco glared down inquisitively at her. "Oh," he snorted, "is that what it is now, _your_ 'mail'?"

She watched him backtrack, closing the parchment as if he truly couldn't have cared less. "Yes," she said, stubbornly, and then let her greasy hair fall back in front of her eyes. Draco thought quickly to himself that he did not like when her locks did that; it made her mysterious, and then he found that he couldn't quite figure her out.

"How civil," Malfoy found himself counteracting, though Hermione on the other hand, chose to remain silent. Casually, she flicked aside the wrapping of her previous sandwich and breathed back out, folding back within herself as he stood to leave her once again. However, he turned back to the freshly opened sandwich in his fist carefully, remembering furiously the way in which her stomach had growled only moments earlier.

He hated himself for it, but he lifted his wand and levitated the spare dinner towards Hermione, only to advance towards the stairs in an almost bitter way after.

"What's this?" Hermione asked, eyeing Draco's meal in the air without actually taking it.

"A sandwich," Malfoy reported, climbing up further towards the top. He had taken to leaving Hermione in the middle of their conversations, and he was more than eager not to break the trend.

"But," Hermione started, sounding uneasy, "you haven't eaten anything yet."

Malfoy scoffed, ignoring her. He rolled his gray eyes again, steadying himself against the stone wall as he continued to lift and extend his aching limbs.

* * *

Draco Malfoy read Hermione Granger's letter to Harry and Ron, anyway, despite being told not to. A true Slytherin, he rummaged for it in his coat pocket and pressed his back securely against the Cellar Door as he peered into it in the darkness. He gave the scene one swift look around before slipping out around the balcony, crouching low beneath the panelling of his father's grand home, and hissing for the family owl to meet him there.

He did not, however, wait for it to meet up with him. Instead, he ignored the time it took for the bird to locate him there and turned back into the letter. Thus, the blond balanced himself in his crouch and settled there, whispering a breathless, _"lumos!"_ under his breath.

So she had told him specifically not to read it, but he was Draco Malfoy and, after all, a Slytherin. She should have known better.

_"P & W," _Hermione's letter read, _"I am so glad that you and DM have met up to put a plan together. I know that, if anybody can make this right, it will be the two of you." _Rolling his eyes, Malfoy skimmed over her formal cliches. Nonetheless, he stifled his bitterness only to dive back into her letter. _"I hope you have had some success with finding and locating you-know-what. I only wish that I were there to help the two of you along the way. I, however, have taken an entirely new task as my own private mission. Though he would absolutely kill me if he knew, DM has become something of a mystery to me..."_

Despite Draco's delicate fingers at the ends of Hermione's letter, he could have torn the letter in two at the very moment he'd red the words of her neat and curly print. He glared back down the hall, down towards the locked door of the Cellar. So he had been a mystery to her, had he? He could not help but feel broiled as he braved to continue on.

_"I am certain that he is trying to help us as best as he can. Granted, he still has an unwillingness to change from his old ways, but that is only natural._

_Believe it or not," _Hermione wrote, and Draco cringed, _"but I think he's changed. I think, I can help him."_

And then it ended, as simple as that. Girlish handwriting signed the end of her letter, a big and wavy 'H' at the bottom of the parchment. For a moment, Malfoy only sat dumbfounded, his knees on the stone flooring as if he found it practically impossible to move. He did not even notice the owl and the way it flapped its wings readily at the side of the balcony nearest him.

So that's what he was now, was it? Hermione Granger's next project? Outraged, Draco whisked the parchment back up into its neat folds and turned back to the owl furiously. With a forceful thrust of his arm, he shoved the letter at the thing and watched it take it quickly. And he even contemplated crumbling the letter up and tossing it before realizing that it was far too late; the lovely white owl had taken off into the night and left him alone, once again at the front stretch of his emerald yard.

Malfoy stiffened his back, raising himself angrily. Fucking Hermione Granger and her need to fix everyone and every blood thing in side.

She wanted a fucking charity case? He'd sure as hell give her one.

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**Vonne: **Review! Thank you!


	12. Kill the Messenger

**Vonne:** I'm so happy to be able to update this chapter so quickly. I am so glad with the excess of reviews and all those of you that come back and review all the chapters you've not reviewed on. Of course, that is not necessary, but its so motivating for me. Thank you so much, I appreciate it more than you know!

**Corey Fitzwilliam:** Haha, yes, Draco will always be Draco won't he. Stubborn little bugger, and yet, it makes him so damn charming, doesn't it? He will, of course, realize soon that there is at least _something_ about that Granger girl that he likes. I'm glad you liked the last chapter; I, too, felt bad for the owl, but Draco had to get her down quickly. He'd better think of a better thing than letters by owls soon, though doesn't he? All this running around is bound to go wrong somehow.

**Sarah: **Aw that you! Im so glad that you liked this chapter! I hope you like this chapter, too! I made it a bit longer, since the last one was sort of short, huh? Hermione's letter is kind of a blow to Draco Malfoy's ego, though, isn't it? Haha, way to knock him down a few pegs.

**Isabella120: **Thank you very much! I'm glad you liked the last chapter! Draco's not too happy about being Hermione's next project, is he? Definitely the reason why Hermione did not want Draco reading her letter. ;)

**Forbiddenluv: **Haha, Draco's got a bit of a short fuse, doesn't he? ;)

**TragicSlytherin: **It's totally fine that you're tired- honestly, I've been a bit on the tired side lately, myself. You have to sleep _underneath _a bed in your dorm room? That's awful! Talk about having no room to sleep in at all. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were the girl in the 'cupboard' under the bed. ;)

Also, of course, thank you to everyone that I responded back to over a PM: **LivelymcBrighten**, **Psychic City**, **MCLanna**, and **LECandeh**.

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_"Kill the messenger, I swear it's not me, just someone I used to know."_

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**Chapter Twelve:**  
**Kill the Messenger**

Draco Malfoy did not sleep at all that night; he was far too busy being furious.

His knuckles turned white as they churned against the sheets of his cot, his gray eyes burning deep holes into the ceiling as if making a mark. He could not think of anything else except that letter. And he felt almost like his old self again, bitter and nauseous and _angry. _Try as he might to think of something different, Draco Malfoy could only focus on Hermione Jean Granger and her charity cases. With his blond head against the pillow, Draco mumbled bitterly to himself- he wouldn't allow himself to turn into her newest bloody project, not if his life depended on it.

In his furiousness, Malfoy had almost forgotten that he had been sharing the darkened room with both Crabbe and Goyle, their two sleeping figures snoring restlessly in the bedroom around him. Perhaps Crabbe had been on the right track with this whole Death Eater thing, after all. He, Malfoy, did not possess the guts just yet, but letters like Granger's were enough to convert him quickly. Hastily, he thought, perhaps he could kill her. She was, after all, a sneaky little git. A small ping in his head said roughly, "_filthy little Mudblood,"_ but he couldn't help but notice that the insult lacked any amount of substance.

What in God's name was she doing to him? If it hadn't been for her, he, Draco, would have had a Hell of an easier time trying to figure out his situation. And, of course, he would have had less sneaking around to do. She'd turned him into a messenger, a bloody postman. She was going to be the death of him and, it so seemed, that he was going to allow it. Malfoy's fists tightened into balls at the sheets he was strangling. He remembered why he had always hated her, then; remembered heavily before he tried not to think about it anymore.

Groaning miserably to himself, Malfoy plummeted his head deeper within the pillow, hugging on to it with his slender arms. He tried to force himself not to consider things like Hermione, pen pals, or Potter, and instead relished in the moment that he had finally found himself alone. The silent breaths of his two ex-droogs almost comforted him, strangely enough. He found balance in his technical solitude, flipping back to face the ceiling only to consider the way in which it curved and arched up ahead of him.

In all the years that he had lived at the Manor, he had never once considered the construction of it. Grand beyond belief, the lovely mansion was far too big for just the three boys that inhabited it. Of course, it had always been a bit too big for anyone at all, really. Thinking back, Draco remembered the way in which the house had horrified him as a child. Stuffed beneath the covers at seven, he recalled flinching at every bump and crack in the night. Now, at seventeen, nothing had really ever changed. As if to prove a point, something in the house popped and Draco Malfoy's torso skyrocketed.

"What was that?" asked a sharp voice from the bed nearest him and Malfoy turned to meet Goyle, eyes wide and twinkling in the blackness. Whatever strength and poise the boy had possessed earlier during their talk had completely vanished. He looked terrified, his sleep having been interrupted by the sound. Pale and translucent, Goyle's drained face searched Draco's for an answer.

Malfoy, however, knew the pop. It was an Apparating pop; someone had broken into the house.

For a second, Draco sat dumbfounded atop the mattress that he'd been propped up on, fear rushing through his entire being so much so that he found himself almost paralyzed. He'd heard it and he was certain; for the first time since the Death Eaters had left them, they were not alone. Yet it was the slight turn of Crabbe at the corner of the room that startled and calmed him at the same time. They found one another's focus, ignoring the heavy breaths of a frantic Goyle. "Crabbe," Goyle murmured, his whisper hoarse and dry, "did you hear that?" Desperation flooded about Goyle's pale visage. He looked needy, small, and frantic- nothing like the the Death Eater he had wanted to badly to become.

Crabbe's face churned vibrantly and Draco heard the stern, _"shh!" _slip from his lips. Goyle bit down forcefully on his lip, obliging quickly. "That was an Apparation pop," whispered Crabbe, turning to Draco and almost ignoring Goyle completely.

Malfoy's vigorous nod signified that he'd realized this. When he spoke again, it was with a scratchy tone that sounded almost commonly unused, "who would be Apparating in the Manor?"

"Did anyone tell you about this?" Crabbe asked, almost ignorantly. Draco shook his head; who would have told him? If anyone should have been informed of a visitor, it certainly had to be Crabbe. Silently, Crabbe fumbled from the sheets, his fingers finding the wand on his bed stand before creeping towards the door bravely. Draco had no time to be impressed. Following the large boy's blatant lead, he whisked his own wand from the place where he'd kept it under his sheets, and stumbled from the mattress while trying not to limp.

Goyle was last. He fumbled from the sheet covers with a shaky hand and pulled across the blankets uneasily. When his fingers grabbed his skinny wand, he almost looked as if he were going to pass out. Nonetheless, he stumbled up behind Malfoy in the line that they had created, both hands wrapped around the end of his weapon. "It _has_ to be one of them," he said to Draco, bending down low so that only he would hear him. "It _has_ to be one of the Death Eaters. Th-They're the only ones that c-can Apparate to your house..."

Feeling a cold chill run up his spine, Draco tried to remain focus. Goyle, however, was more than right- the spells cast on the Manor had prevented anyone from Apparating there expect the Death Eaters. He tried not to tremble as he considered which one of them had been sent, and whether or not they had seen him send Hermione's letter off earlier. Yet the push at his back signified that their line had started moving and, wobbling, Malfoy tried hard not to think about what was going to happen to him.

If the Dark Lord had sent Fenrir Greyback, he would undoubtedly be turned. The old werewolf had been eyeing him ever since he and Lucius Malfoy had begun to argue. He took great pleasure in whispering warnings in Draco's ear on a nightly basis, his voice nothing more than a low growl when he asked continuously, "I wonder what your _father_ would think to see his son's spilt blood after I've bitten you, boy... wouldn't be so pure then, now would it?"

Bellatrix Lestrange was, of course, another story entirely. Nonetheless, he still was not sure which of the two would have been worse. Of course, his aunt had been almost notorious for her tendencies to play with her food. Draco wondered reluctantly which of his body parts she would send to his father before deciding that she would certainly send his head, only to have fun reanimating it later. Malfoy almost stumbled in his step. They had almost made it down the end of the hallway in the three-man line that they had created for themselves and Draco only tried his best to remain poised and proper.

Malfoy tried not to think of Agustus Rookwood, either. Had Voldemort sent him, Draco Malfoy was certain that he would never see the light of day again. Having endured prison time in Azkaban, Rookwood had, of course, grown bored. Killing Lucius Malfoy's only son would, nonetheless, prove to be a proper cure for his boredom.

Antonin Dolohov would take great pleasure in burning him alive. It was his specialty, and Draco Malfoy knew. He could almost feel the purple flames burn through his skin.

Amycus Carrow undoubtedly would take to _Crucio_. Perhaps he'd hex Malfoy with the curse so much that he would be driven to the brink of insanity.

Granted, Thorfinn Rowle would take immense glee in torturing him after what had transpired between him and Draco. Despite being forced to torture Rowle by the Dark Lord himself, Malfoy had seen the way that Rowle had looked at him after the spell had been released. Malfoy saw it in his eyes; he would get him back sooner or later.

Despite being a pureblood, Travers would lack just as much mercy. After having failed to kill Dumbledore, the gray haired wizard had looked down upon Draco as much as he had any other wizard whose blood he deemed 'filthy'.

Yaxley, with his love for the Imperious Curse, would place him under and force him to slice off his own limbs.

Jugson would leave his body hanged at the front of the Ministry. Alecto Carrow would be just as vile as her brother. Crabbe, Rosier, Mulciber, Nott.. either way he was dead.

"I see him, there." The first whisper to interrupt his thoughts came from Crabbe, who cocked his thick head around the corner of the hallway to gesture towards a lumpy shadow at the end of the staircase. It rustled there in the darkness, a swift and heavy grunt sounding out around the living room from the floor below. Goyle's fingernails clenched harder at his wand and his spare hand dove deeper into Draco's arched back. The blond bit his lip in order from crying out, but only leaned up against the wall for support.

Goyle shook his head, sweat pouring from it. "I can't see him," he said fearfully, and Draco couldn't either. Cast in the shadows, the figure moved slowly, bent down low as if pulling something along with it.

_"Shh!" _hissed Crabbe, who shot his head around with great effort. Goyle's head dropped, his shoulders sinking reactively back in his defense. However, Crabbe seemed to let his outburst go; within a few seconds of silence, he had managed to calm himself in order to shout sternly, "_Lumos! _Who is there?"

The light shining from the tip of Crabbe's wand shout out effectively and, much to the three boys' surprise, the figure in the night stumbled back. An audible little gasp emitted from his shallow throat and Draco thought it odd for a Death Eater to make such a high-pitched noise. He stepped further into the light of Crabbe's useful source. _"Wormtail?"_

Fat, balding, and drenched in water, the hunched over Death Eater spun around to face Crabbe, Draco, and Goyle rather uneasily. His hands dropped whatever he had been dragging along behind him and it hit the ground with a hefty thud. Though minimal, Crabbe's light showed the face of the mousy man, teeth protruding and rotting from the inside of his chapped and flaky lips. He wheezed, looking like a pathetic deer trapped in the headlights. Peter Pettigrew, Malfoy saw; he couldn't have been more relived. His life had been spared.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" Crabbe hissed, huffing out his chest. Though he had taken to being rather submissive in front of the other Death Eaters, neither of the boys feared the rodent-like Pettigrew in the slightest.

Sliding back into the darkness, Peter narrowed his eyes at the boy. His own wand stuffed somewhere deep within his pocket, he was far too focused on the thing ahead of him to grab it. Instead, he turned to the handkerchief in his spare arm and held it up to his nose, as if trying to suffocate himself. "My _job_, of course, why're you three up?" he tried to sound courageous when he said it, but only managed to finish his sentence before miserably falling into a fit of dry coughs and gags in the process.

Crabbe ignored him. As Draco and Goyle stepped out from behind him, they had to crane their heads to see the lump in the shadows properly. "What's that you've got there?" Goyle asked, and Draco glanced up at him curiously, as if wondering where he'd even found his voice.

Pettigrew glared. "What do you think?" he asked, dipping his head to the thing. Crabbe's lit wand followed. Peter's fingers were coiled around the meaty legs of a chubby girl who, by the look of her, had obviously been a Muggle. She wore a dirty olive green raincoat and a pair of brown trousers. Her flat sneakers were covered in dirt and a sticky red liquid that Malfoy instantly knew as blood. He wondered if it were hers before figuring that it had to have been; she looked as if she hadn't even stood a chance. The look on her face was ghastly, as if caught in a scream, and her ragged blonde hair struck out in all different directions. Her locks matted together, stuck there with blood and dirt and twigs. She was bleeding out from her chest, through her shirt. Her green eyes looked up at Draco and she almost begged for him to help her beyond the grave. "This one's from Bellatrix," Pettigrew reported, lifting the fat legs slightly, "she wanted to make sure the Mudblood down in the Cellar had herself some nice company." A yellow toothed smile spread across his face.

Draco couldn't help himself. He drew his eyes up from the disfigured body and looked back at Peter. "What for?"

The grotesque man's smile doubled. "In celebration, of course!" he retaliated quickly enough to bring away the handkerchief from his face so that he could breathe.

"Celebration of _what?" _Malfoy commanded. Both Goyle and Crabbe moved in front of him, their bodies tall and stiff, practiced. But Malfoy only lowered himself to the ground, his eyes scrambling over the crooked body of the Muggle girl, her round face turned to one side as a trickle of crimson blood leaked from her parted lips. He resisted the urge to brush aside the hair from her face.

Scoffing, Pettigrew dropped the legs again. They hit the ground harshly at Narcissa's lovely rug and sent dust swirling everywhere. However, the man's superiority shone in his stature. He had forgotten about how the three had been left out of the loop, and the reminder seemed to keep him rooted. Pridefully, he leaned against the back wall to contain himself, removing the handkerchief away from his nose as if he had never had it there in the first place. "Right," he wheezed, "I've forgotten that the Dark Lord sees it fit to leave the three children in the dark."

Crabbe's back straightened. He raised his wand higher. "So," he spat, curious, "you have news then?"

"Do I?" Pettigrew shrugged, relishing in his short-lived moment. The eerie grin remained ever so present.

"Oh, I think you do," Crabbe hissed, and Pettigrew did not even move a muscle. Yet, when the dirty man remained proudly silent, Crabbe retracted his wand back and sent a silent spell at the glass vase near Peter's large frame. Jumpy, Peter snapped back to focus, eyes wide at Crabbe before slinking back down. He pulled his wand out from his trousers and narrowed his own yellow eyes. When Crabbe did not move, however, Peter only shoved his meaty arm away from the front of his face. "Spit it out," Crabbe commanded, nonetheless. "Now."

"Oh, testy!" Pettigrew taunted, rolling his eyes. "The Ministry has fallen, if you must know," he informed them, looking accomplished. "The Death Eaters have taken over." He paused, momentarily, forgetting that Crabbe had posed any real threat to him whatsoever. "It's only a matter of time now."

Crabbe mimicked Peter's actions, rolling his eyes before stepping away from the grimy man. However, he could not mask his satisfaction. The Ministry had been taken over; Pettigrew was right. It wasn't long before now that the Wizarding World would spiral down. Draco tried to swallow his misery, tried to form a look of content of his otherwise gaunt visage. The fleshy fingers of the dead girl stretched out him almost desperately. Draco wondered how Hermione would fancy her new guest.

In his ear, Pettigrew leaned down and crouched next to Draco. Wickedly, he flashed the boy a devious smile. "Like 'em fleshy, do you, boy?" he quipped, his breath vile and disturbing.

Malfoy's face fell. He studied the round blob on the ground next to him, her stomach bloated with death and whatever else. "You're disgusting," Malfoy retorted, shoving himself up from the ground, but he ended up wobbling in the process. Pettigrew only sneered greedily, his ugly teeth jagged and wonky in his putrid mouth. "Shouldn't you be going?" Draco seethed.

"Should I be?" Peter lifted an unkempt brow.

"It's late," Goyle quipped, almost bitterly.

Peter, in the background, hardly moved a muscle. He knew he had them licked. They were nothing; they were not Death Eaters. In the eyes of the Dark Lord Voldemort, they had done nothing, killed no one. And Malfoy, still limply against the wall- he'd still been the one to fail them all. He'd still been the one who hadn't killed Albus Dumbledore. Pettigrew knew that they were on thin ice, knew that their time among Voldemort's followers was only to be earned. Despite his cowardice, despite his status among the others, Pettigrew was still more highly ranked.

"Is it?" Pettigrew clicked his tongue. "I hadn't even noticed."

Draco glanced towards the clock. Goyle had been wrong- in fact, it was early. Squinting, the blond saw that the arms of the thing were twisted around to two thirty-five in the morning.

However, the stout man gave a step back, eyeing the three carefully before throwing his wand back casually into his trouser pocket. "But," he said, a challenge, "if you pups think you can handle it..."

"We can handle it!" It was Crabbe, his fingers still on his wand. He had squeezed the thing so tightly that his knuckles were straining, turning white with pure fury. The sight of his teeth made him look like a dog, gnashing with its cavities. He was not insisting, but stating it to Peter, a mere fact that he certainly showed he did not want overlooked. And his expression read in completeness: _get out. _Only, Peter gave the equally as chubby boy a slight nod before tilting his ugly head. "They trained you well, I see," he huffed, stepping over the Muggle girl and not even glancing back when the sole of his shoe hit the side of her squashed cheek.

Crabbe's eyes flashed. In the darkness, he looked at Draco and Goyle angrily before turning back to Peter. "You have no idea," he hissed.

Once again, Peter's eyes circled back in his head. He made a careless gesture and wobbled back towards the front door, shoving his hanky back into his coat before tugging on the tattered scarf that clung to his wide and blemished neck. He looked casual, regarding Crabbe's threat dully before asking, "_furious_ fucking thing, aren't you?" Remaining silent, Crabbe brought his wand up to poke forcefully at the pudgy bulge of Peter's cheek. "Fuckin'-" Peter's eyes found Crabbe's and, for a moment, he seemed to have lost himself. "Fine!" he retorted, reaching for the front knob of the Manor's main door. "We are watching you, you know."

Feeling uneasy, Malfoy's throat ran incredibly dry. Though Peter was not looking at him specifically, he almost lost his slipping balance on the marble floor. "I'm the one that watches them most of the time, too," Peter drew on, a grander smile creeping across his face.

Something flickered in the corner of Malfoy's view. He saw it at first in the reflection of the window before following it carefully through the image of his mother's lovely mirror. There, in the morning blackness, was the owl- the one he had just sent out. The three men around him had not heard the flapping of wings, had not felt the rush of air in their very spines as Draco's had. He almost lost his balance, a true threat this time, and his fingers pried at the couch's backboard.

Careful not to give himself away, Draco watched the bird through the mirror, the snowy white and miserable beast making camp on the balcony. It stretched its wings and relaxed itself, sitting dutifully in patience, his head churning and looping around as if it had not sensed a problem in the world. Crabbe and Peter were still faithfully at it, too; their voices carried throughout the living room of the Manor, echoing almost sadistically. "Do you now?" Crabbe huffed, "now I _really_ see how much of an importance you are to the rest of them."

Peter flinched, but regained himself thereafter. "I'd watch your backs, if I were you three," he drawled, his high-pitched sneer just an octave higher than a rat's. All the while, the bird outdoors waited, its head flinched upwards slightly, but it seemed far too perplexed by its image in the water of the sparkling fountain below it to notice.

Drao thought fast. Spinning, his gray eyes caught hold of one of the discarded books from several nights before. Large, the thing sat propped in the corner by edge of the elegant couch, unnoticed. It was hidden in the shadows and he was certain the he must have missed when attempting to pick up. Malfoy shifted, his foot dragged across the floor to find the book by his shoes. He glanced up, careful, and then nudged the thing towards the glass. Waiting, he watched Crabbe raise his wand, and he saw the hex on his eyes even before he directed it. Malfoy drew his foot back right as Crabbe drew back his hand. Then, with one sharp kick, Draco sent the book crashing into the bottom of the kissing balcony doors right as Crabbe smashed sparks of warning fire into the wall at Peter's head.

"Go!" Crabbe growled. He had not noticed, by the bird outside had. Startled, the animal's head jerked up violently. The large yellow eyes of the beast found Draco's, taking in the quick sight of him. It did not make a sound, but instead slipped back slightly. Then, without much effort, it dropped the letter from its beak and let it slide across the balcony to the crack of the doors. Trapped between the two of them, the letter only fluttered slightly in the wind, but remained slightly dried from the pouring rain outside.

His heart pounding wildly in his chest, Draco spun back around to face the others, his eyes drawn to both Crabbe and Pettigrew, neither of which had seemed to have noticed a thing. Instead, they remained locked within the eyes of one another. Feverishly, they remained that way; silently, they contemplated lunging. Nonetheless, neither Crabbe or Peter opted to say anything more. Only, Peter reached for the door and swung it open, a hefty gust of wind rushing in his face from the rain barging on outdoors. Pettigrew's face visibly slipped; he had a long way to walk before the spell preventing him to Apparate had ended around the Manor.

Yet, just as the meaty man stepped out into the dark morning, Draco saw the owl, once again. Naked without any form of letter on it, the thing swooped down in front of Peter almost violently. Pettigrew ducked, wrapping his arms around the top of his head and pressing his eyes shut. Even Crabbe stumbled back, spooked at the appearance of the rather large bird in the first place. His lost his footing in the process, staggering over his own two feet as his shoulder hit the slender coat hanger.

"What in the bloody _Hell_ was that?" Peter yelled, unwinding from his huddled crouch. Into the sky he squinted, so much so that his beady little eyes turned into nothing more than two unsightly slits. "An _owl?"_ Peter only watched the bird fade away into the distance. "Was that a bleeding _owl? _Have you been sending letters out, boy?"

Crabbe's back stiffened. "Of course we're not sending any fucking-"

"Better not be," Peter smirked. His smile returned back to his face and he straightened his upper back, retracting back towards the doorframe ever so slightly. "I _will _see it when you do, you know." The corners of his mouth lifted triumphantly. "I _will_ see it when any of the three of you dare to _fuck_ up."

"We're not sending any bloody letters!" hissed Malfoy, and he tried to hide the fact that his heart was pounding horribly in his aching sternum. Every vein in his body seemed to pump to life.

Pettigrew's eyes only lifted. He studied the slender blond for a long time before he looked back down at Crabbe. "Behave yourselves," he said in a tone that was cooing and mockingly pleasant. With that, he pressed his eyes shut and the slits of his eyes rolled back. Crabbe stepped around, his wand faltering slowly at the change of the man in front of him. The very moment he had finished speaking, his head lulled to the side and his fat frame seemed to shrink. Then the clothing feel from his body as he seemed to fumble into himself. When Draco looked again, there was nothing more than a pile of clothes where the man had once been. In the dead of the night, however, a filthy brown rat scrambled out into the distance.

Silent, the three stared out into the night, the rat wandering into the grass before their very eyes. When Crabbe finally motioned to close the door, he did so with a hard slam.

"What," he asked, shoulders low and confused, "in the bloody _Hell_ was that?"

Sputtering, Goyle's mouth moved to search for words. "... He's an Animagus..." Goyle offered, but Crabbe's glare signified that, despite the effort, he was not helping.

"We just let the _biggest joke_ of the Death Eaters walk all over us!" Crabbe retorted, roaring. "Draco, what in the _bloody Hell_ was that?" he repeated. Malfoy opted not to say anything in his defense. He had not done much to better their situation, and he was still reeling from the owl's appearance at all. Eyeing the letter secretively, he tried his best to look stoney. Heated, Crabbe leaned back. Then, roaring, he lifted his arm to knock down the coat hanger to the ground at his right.

Goyle flinched. "C-Crabbe," he muttered, looking a bit uneasy, "... I d-didn't think-"

"No, you _didn't_ think, Goyle- you, too, Draco!" Crabbe shouted. He was red in the face, and water almost spilled from his eyes. Malfoy envisioned smoke whirling from the boy's mouth like a bull. As Crabbe neared the two of them, he stumbled over the coat hanger he had only just tipped over. Loosing his footing slightly, Crabbe regained himself with a hiss of subtle embarrassment before delivering a hard and angry kick to the wooden rack at the floor nearest him. "Fuck!" he cried, outraged.

Draco stood silently, his eyes watching the staggering boy as he breathed between a set of clenched teeth. Goyle, however, tried in vain to settle him. "Crabbe," he almost begged, "calm-"

"No, I will _not_ calm down, Goyle!" hollered Crabbe, his fists clenching. His forced his body down on the mattress of the couch, making it dip down slightly with his weight. "Shit," he muttered, shakily to himself. "Shit, _shit!" _

"Crabbe, it's only _Wormtail_!" Goyle insisted, placing his wand down on the coffee table as a slight peace offering. "It doesn't make a difference!"

"Exactly!" Crabbe continued, "it's only _Wormtail! _Dammit!" he hissed, grinding his fingernails into the sofa further, "we let him fucking_ destroy_ us!"

Goyle's back flopped down dimly. He slipped over towards the coffee table carefully, but did not sit down on it. "I tried to say something to him," he said softly, his head down with slight defeat.

Only Crabbe's head snapped up. He ignored Goyle and turned to Draco in an accusatory manner. "And what's your excuse?" he asked, sending spit flying in every direction from his lips.

Malfoy stood stilly. He didn't have an excuse, and his first thought wasn't to come up with one. "I just thought that-"

"Fuck!" the yell came from Crabbe again, though it had been almost insanely obvious by the outrage mixed with humiliation in his voice. He cut Draco off mid-sentence, plunging his head into the palms of his hands forcefully before breathing out through his teeth. Malfoy and Goyle stood silent, their eyes locked on Crabbe who, by all means, seemed far too angry to move at all. Whatever Draco's comment had been, he did not care. What had been done had been done, and Crabbe knew: there was nothing they could do to change it.

Silence took over the three in the living room and nothing but the ticking clock filled the air. Malfoy heard sixty of them; an entire minute had gone by before anyone had opted to saying another word at all. And when one of the three finally did decide to say something, it had been Goyle. He was standing awkwardly against the back of the couch opposite Crabbe, looking pale and morose ever since Peter's swift departure. He shifted in his space, scuffing his bare feet across the floor and looking almost small in his pyjamas. "Do you..." he started, almost too unsure of himself, "do you want me to take care of the body?"

He asked sincerely, dropping his eyes across the floorboards and dragging them to the sight of the pudgy Muggle girl. The blood seeping from her head had spread. It cocooned around her skull like a mockery of some sort of perfect halo. Draco watched Goyle's features slowly. He was trying, he really was.

"I can take it down to the Cellar with Granger," Goyle began again, chewing on his bottom lip. "I can just get it out of here."

Crabbe didn't even move an inch. His frown twitched long enough for him to be able to mutter, "fine," from the corner of his lips.

Draco didn't say a word as Goyle slowly shifted into action. Nodding quickly, he looked almost relieved to have been permitted some sort of leave. Nonetheless, he scooted down towards the body and shoved his wand into his pocket; Draco wondered slightly about his choice not to Levitate her before deciding that he had only been imitating the others. Voldemort wanted not a hair out of place, and Goyle was almost programed to oblige.

Hand held outwards, Goyle reached towards the Muggle girl's fat legs and hoisted them up by her ankles. A soft jolt to the body made her hair fall back and her horrified face struck out almost obviously in the lack of sufficient light. Even Crabbe looked up slightly to see the way she moved as she was dragged away. Thus, in the gray light she moved with Goyle's every tug, her arms out behind her head as her head pulled against the rug that was spread out underneath her.

They listened to the soft grunt of Goyle's throat in the darkness. By a bit, she was slightly bigger than he had been, and his fingers seemed to latch on to her feet for dear life. Nonetheless, he'd had her almost too well, careful not to clean up her horrifyingly mauled image so that she would look all the more presentable for Hermione down below. And, once he had finally made it to the start of the hallway, Draco watched the curled hard of the deceased Muggle turn around the corner. Vanishing beyond the walls of the large and gigantic house, Malfoy was almost certain she'd waved him a terrified goodbye as she was finally led away to her new home.

When the door of the Cellar creaked open around them, Malfoy counted barely a second before it slammed shut once again. Then he waited. Watching Crabbe's still posture on the cushions of the couch before him, Draco couldn't help but glance back over to the letter near the doorframe. He felt a bout of urgency rush through him. He hoped Crabbe wouldn't notice it there.

Yet, Draco watched his still friend carefully. Crabbe was right, as much as he'd hated to admit it; Pettigrew was the biggest joke among the Death Eaters and they had done nothing to defend themselves against him. Feeling silly, Draco's posture fumbled. Turning his eyes away from the letter, he chewed hastily on his lower lip before saying out loud, "Crabbe, I..." he stopped, inhaling. "You were right," he said to him, "that shouldn't have happened."

Crabbe laughed sarcastically, a single chuckle that was almost far too cold for having made peace with Draco only a little bit ago.

"I should have said something." Draco was adamant, shaking his head to slip down on the couch opposite Crabbe. He was loosing himself and he knew it. Gone was the Draco that would have hexed the living daylights out of Pettigrew for barging into the Manor so secretively. Gone was the boy who would have challenged him with his wand. A feeling of despair washed over him and he wasn't even sure what he was becoming. Stuck, it seemed, between two different options, he, Malfoy, was rather undefinable at the moment.

He wasn't on his father's side of the War- a fact that, by all means, tore him to pieces. Nonetheless, he wasn't neutral. And as the times seemed to shove him more towards _Potter's, _Draco felt his bitterness get the best of him. He didn't want this, didn't want a bloody conscience. He was supposed to be doing what he had been born and raised to do. He was a pureblood wizard, not a bloody coward. When he spoke aloud to Crabbe, he did so as if he were trying to convince himself.

"I was too focused on the body to-"

"You can't let your head think about that shit!" said Crabbe, lifting his head up to thrust out his hands with a simple gesture. "You've got to overlook it sometimes, Draco! This isn't a War for those with a weak stomach!" Crabbe breathed heavily, his eyes wide and impatient, waiting for Malfoy to respond, if he were to do so at all.

Malfoy ran his hand through his hair, letting the blond locks fall out of place all over again the very moment he released his grip. "Right," he mumbled, feeling almost blatantly humiliated. He thought of Hermione, her charity case, and how it had probably been working right then and there under his very nose. He, however, said nothing further.

She was doing something to him- she was getting inside his head, making him reconsider the War, his blood status... everything. He'd spent his time _talking- _not hexing- her in her cell. He'd given her his bloody meal. A swell of bitterness rose up in his chest. He couldn't let this happen because he was a Malfoy, the son of Lucius Malfoy, nonetheless. He couldn't let himself loose the boy he had always known.

"You're becoming disillusioned, Draco, I can see it," Crabbe whispered, his shoulders dropping.

Malfoy's face reddened. "I am not disillusioned-" he began, but Crabbe cut him off.

"Not yet, maybe, but soon it will happen." He was stone-faced when he'd said it, his eyes wet with frustration. However, he sat still, his mouth covered by his big hand in the process of his scrutiny. He stared back at Draco for a moment before letting his palm drop. "You do want this, don't you, Draco?" he asked, and Malfoy froze on the spot.

Draco's head snapped up. "I've already told you that this _is_ what I want, Crabbe," he said, and the wind made the letter outside flap noisily in the rainstorm.

Crabbe had never looked so utterly desperate. Every sparkle in his eyes shone out almost clearly. The lump in his throat was almost distinctly visible. Something about him seemed anxious and determined. He considered Draco Malfoy for a long while before even making eye contact with him once again. "Remember when we had our talk, Draco?" Crabbe asked with nothing more than a simple whisper.

Turning his head slightly, Draco eyed Crabbe a bit further. "Yeah," he muttered, face draining. How could he have possibly forgotten?

"I asked you to prove it," Crabbe said, though he was not forceful in his words. Instead, he talked soothingly, as if attempting to coax Malfoy from his numbed state. They were friends, after all... weren't they?

Malfoy tried to mask the sound of his beating heart. Crabbe did not seem to notice the flapping letter outside; he only seemed to notice Draco and Draco alone. "Yeah..." Malfoy began, sounding uneasy.

"Can you now?" Crabbe was asking him, his face blank. "Could you prove it to me, right now?"

Draco glanced down the hallway to the Cellar. Goyle still hadn't returned back with the body yet, but he knew that the boy would arrive back sooner or later. He wondered with an unwanted worry what had been taking him so long. "I don't... it's almost three in the morning, Crabbe," Malfoy mused.

"It's not like you sleep at night anyway," Crabbe interjected, his eyes narrowed with what Draco regarded as suspicion.

A strange and overwhelming terror crept over Draco as he wondered how Crabbe had known to make such a comment. Had he been watching him at night? Had he been pretending to sleep while Draco stared at the ceiling countless nights over and over again? He wondered if Crabbe had watched his reflexion in the mirror at night; he wondered how many times they had made eye contact in the blackness and he had not even known it.

"How do you-?" Malfoy started, but Crabbe only pressed on.

"Could you prove it?" he asked, "like you told me? Could you do it right now?" A loud banging noise was heard from the floor below them followed by a terrified scream. The pounding of ascending footsteps filled both the boys' ears, but only Draco finched.

Crabbe's eyes watched him closely. He waited for an answer, waited for a sound, for anything. But Malfoy had only sat frozen, his eyes in at the mirror and the letter. "I could-"

"You could?" Crabbe cut Draco off, speaking quickly as if he was not entirely certain that Draco had said it himself.

Malfoy swallowed, feeling almost nauseous. Then, despite himself, he nodded.

For a moment, Crabbe only stared. His expression was fixed, as if he were almost unsure what exactly to think about Draco's commitment. He said nothing, did nothing. Rather, only his shoulders lowered, his eyes and his facial features softening as if trying to figure him out. They did not move from their spots on the couches, and the letter in the wind went blatantly unnoticed.

"There." The first sound to break the silence came from Goyle, whose figure appeared at the end of the living room covered in sweat. Blood covered the surface of his palms, dripped onto the floor and made him look almost utterly exhausted. Still, the look on his face was hazy, as if he weren't quite sure what to think of his accomplishment. He stood slightly still, glaring down at his red palms in a state of curious shock before chewing on his lower lip and dragging them across the trousers of his pyjamas, wiping himself clean.

Blinking, Crabbe only minutely glanced up. "'There', what?" he asked, finally releasing the gaze he'd had upon Malfoy.

"There, as in, I did it... I-I put the body in the Cellar." Goyle looked up, inquisitive. He truly did not understand.

"And how was she?" Crabbe asked quickly.

Goyle skipped a breath. "She was..." he started, unsure, "... dead, Crabbe."

"I meant _Granger,_" Crabbe retracted, his face crumbling into a visage of disapproval.

Keeping himself distanced in the darkness of the hallway, Goyle's posture deflated. "She's... awake?" he offered, slightly unclear.

However, Crabbe seemed all the more satisfied with the answer than Goyle had even expected. He lifted a brow and turned back to Draco, a glistening in his eyes shinning out brightly; it was one that Draco had not noticed before. "Awake," Crabbe seemed to muse within himself, "is she now?"

Remaining weary, Goyle's stature only slightly faltered. Draco, on the other hand, looked as if he were about to loose consciousness. He tried to hold himself upwards, blinked only slightly when Goyle's uneasy voice came back to clarify, "yeah..."

"Well," Crabbe said, lifting his shoulders back up. He seemed to grow in size. "That's... convenient." He turned his bulky head back to Malfoy. For a second he watched him and then, just as quickly as he'd ended his gaze, Crabbe asked, "care to lead the way?"

Malfoy's heart skipped a beat. He looked at the letter at the other side of the kissing doors. It pounded against the glass lightly, but remained true to the cracks that it was trapped into. And all the while he could feel Crabbe's eyes burning back into him. He didn't follow Malfoy's gaze to the window, but instead looked into his heart and attempted casually to consider his soul. So, despite himself, Draco found that he was standing, his legs shaky across the marble floor as he tried his best not to limp.

"Wait?" Goyle was stammering behind him, but Malfoy was too cast within himself to notice. He gave the letter one last stare, watched Crabbe follow him past it without even giving the thing a second glance. "Wait... what's going on? Where are you going?"

Crabbe offered Goyle a swift explanation. "We'll be right back, Goyle," he told him carefully, his tone of voice soft and a bit falsely comforting. "Grab some liquor in the cabinet and go to bed."

"But-" Goyle's face was pale and unsightly. He glanced over at Draco, who only considered the hallway and his wand in his pocket. He had to mean it, and he thought of all the things Hermione Granger had done to ever piss him off in his entire life.

"Goyle,_ go_," Crabbe instructed. He shut Goyle up. Standing still, Goyle's shoulders dropped, his mouth parting slightly. He did not move a muscle, but only stood dumbly, watching the two make their way down the hall, back towards the Cellar that he had only just come out of.

And so Malfoy approached the hallway.

He lifted his wand to touch the end of the Cellar door and watched in silence at it unlocked.

He dragged his delicate fingers to pull it open, listening to the faint creak it made in his ears as he did so.

Then he descended down the steps, Crabbe close behind him, and tried to adjust his eyes to the night. He almost felt a ping of something heavy when he heard Hermione call meekly from down below, "M-Malfoy?"

She looked up at him from the shadows, her face hidden by her cast aside hair in the dark. And Draco could almost feel Crabbe's smile widen at the back of him. He was ready, and Hermione was just so unknowing. When she shifted in the darkness, Malfoy could not help but feel nauseous. He stepped in closer, pulling aside the bars of the Cellar that sat at the bottom of the steps. Then he caught sight of her face, so overjoyed and relaxed when she first saw him, her eyes quietly studying him before she had even noticed Crabbe's large and heavy-set figure behind him.

Though she did not speak up, her eyes asked him silently, _"what is it? What's wrong?"_

He didn't mouth anything back; _couldn't _mouth anything back. Only, he let his foot graze down the last step, avoiding her eyes and instead looking down at the shadowy lumps on the ground next to her. Goyle had been true to his word; both the slender and the chubby Muggle girls were in their places, as promised. Hermione's timid head glanced up; she considered Draco, and then the large forming shadow that rose up behind him.

She didn't quite look so relieved anymore.

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**Vonne: **Please don't be scared to leave me a review and let me know what you thought! Thank you!


	13. Goodbye Blue Sky

**Vonne: **Wow! I am blown away with all the interest this story has collected so far. I've gotten so many hits, alerts, favorites, and reviews! Thank you so much! I appreciate it more than you know!

**Miss. Lila-Russel: **I am so impressed with all the reviews you left me! Thank you so much for reviewing every chapter, you definitely did not have to do that. Nonetheless, I appreciate it so much! I read every single review you submitted and I was floored. Thank you so much for the interest! I hope you enjoy this chapter just as much as you've enjoyed the others so far! Thanks again!

**Isabella120: **Thank you so much! I'm not too fond of this chapter because I felt rushed, but I'm so happy that you've liked this story so far. I hope you end up liking this one, despite the rush and the shorter length of chapter thirteen. I promise to have longer chapters in the future, ah! Anyways, thank you so much!

**CoreyFitzwilliam: **Draco's found himself in a bit of a pickle, hasn't he? Either way, he's kind of screwed, you know? I guess you'll just have to read on to find out what happens. Of course, he's got to face the consequences either way, doesn't he...

**Carl: **Thank you so much! I hope you like chapter thirteen just as much, too!

**Stupidamericanidoms91: **Crabbe has definitely _not_ turned into a very nice person, has he? He's definitely a bit over his head. Ha, I agree with you and your friend. Crabbe needs a nap, perhaps the lack of sleep is making him grumpy.

**TragicSlytherin: **Ah! Okay, I promise never to compare you to Harry Potter ever again. ;) Anyway, I love reading your long reviews, they really motivate me to keep writing. I'm glad that you're so into this fanfiction and I'm so happy that you like the way its written. That's such a big compliment. Sorry it took me a little while to upload this chapter, but I hope you enjoy it just as much!

**Blackandred17: **Thank you! I feel like rushing things makes Dramione fanfictions less believable, you know? It's important to me that the two have an actual connection before they dive into a relationship right off the bat. That's why I drag things on when I write a bit. It just seems to flow better. I'm glad that you're enjoying this fanfiction so far. Thank you so much for your review!

**PirateKnightoftheRings: **Aw, thank you so, so much! Your review made my day. I'm so glad that you've liked this story so much and that you've decided to stick with it, despite usually reading canons. You really motivated me to get this chapter in. I'm sorry about the bit of a wait, though. I was so busy and I finally got everything caught up with enough that I had time to update. I hope you like this chapter!

**Sarah: **Yay! I'm glad you liked it! I tried to make it longer for you, which is my goal. Unfortunately, this chapter is not too long, but the next one will be. I've been running low on time lately, so I'm trying to submit new chapters as fast as I can lately. I hope you like this chapter! Thank you so much for your consistent reviews. I appreciate it so much!

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_"Did you see the frightened ones ? Did you hear the falling bombs? Did you ever wonder why we had to run for shelter when the promise of a brave new world?" _

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**Chapter Thirteen**  
**Goodbye Blue Sky**

_"M-Malfoy?"_

The shadow of Hermione Granger was bent double, her head poking from the shadows as if to get a better look. She'd been so relieved then, once she'd first laid eyes on the blond, timidly stumbling down the steps of the Cellar with a limp. Yet it was the very moment that her eyes found Vincent Crabbe that everything fell to pieces. Malfoy heard her let out a little gasp and she staggered back, her head almost colliding with the stone wall behind her in the process. And, confused, she glanced up, eyes narrowed and palely translucent- she reminded him of a child, then, but Draco was too numb to even look back at her.

"Get up." The command came from Crabbe and Hermione glanced over at Draco. She didn't move. Rather, she kept herself hunched over on the floor with her long, shaggy hair covering her face completely. And yet, her lack of obedience did not please Crabbe in the slightest. "I said, 'get up'!" he demanded, and his complexion morphed into a rather cruel one. He then lunged, balling a fist to clamp it around the collar of Hermione's pink jacket. Once secured, he ignored the hoarse little yelp that emitted from her throat as she was pulled to her feet. Yet the moment the soles of Hermione's shoes touched the stone ground, Crabbe shoved her back, pinning her against the wall and thrusting an outstretched arm in the space nearest her head. He said, "when I tell you to do something, you better _fucking_ do it!"

Hermione's brown eyes flashed. She was not looking at Crabbe, but at Draco, her gaze wide and intensified. However, her confusion only managed to last a moment; once she'd found Malfoy's bent head in the darkness, she'd seemed to understand everything. Malfoy heard her meek sob in the very moment that she had realized what was happening around her; he had, of course, given her a fair warning. Crabbe had been waiting and now it was Draco's turn to prove to him that he was, after all, just like the others.

So sneering, Crabbe bent in further towards the Gryffindor. Spit flew from his gaping mouth in every possible direction. "What are you looking at?" he spat, grabbing her by the hair. "Look at me!"

Draco watched Hermione's head snap around, obliging. However, her face was not blank with submission, but rather twisted. Raising a hand, Hermione lurched forwards, her fists seizing tightly around Crabbe's fat neck in the process. And, while it had been rather obvious that Hermione did not stand a chance, she had certainly caught Crabbe by surprise. Retching, the fat Death Eater reeled back, shoving Hermione away from him as he fumbled towards Draco in the darkness. Eyes wide, his hands grabbed at his collarbone, gasping for breath, and it took him a fair amount of sharp inhales to even manage to regain his composure again.

When Crabbe reeled around again, however, he did so with blatant intensity. "You filthy little Mudblood!" he roared, and he advanced back on her again, pushing her so hard into the stone wall that Hermione had been instantly winded. Then, as the scene around him moved far too quickly, Draco watched Crabbe raise his own hand again. This time, however, he directed it not at the wall behind Hermione, but instead at the white surface that was her tear-stained face. "Bitch!"

In all the years that Draco had lived at the Manor, he had never seen his father raise a hand to his mother. Yet, stunned, he almost lost his own balance at the mere sound that it had made. Echoing and powerful, Crabbe struck Hermione with such force that Malfoy had almost felt as if he had been hit himself. The contact with Crabbe's fist sent Hermione's head against the stone for the third time, another yelp sounding out from her throat.

"HEY!" Malfoy couldn't help himself. The outraged cry had escaped from him before he had even seen it coming. Thus, he wasn't even certain he had been the one to protest, only realizing it so once the noise in the room had stopped. Crabbe, so frantic beforehand, had turned his attention to Draco and Draco alone.

The boy took in several breaths, his shoulders still hitched up near his ears. "What?" he panted, still unsure that Malfoy had even objected at all. Draco stood still, mentally backtracking. Yet, even Hermione's eyes were watching him. Her chest rose and fell with exhaustion. She gaped back at him fearfully, frozen beneath the clutches of the meaty boy ahead of her. Nonetheless, Draco was far too stunned himself. He didn't say a word and so, as it was, Crabbe kindly took the responsibility for him. "What did you say, Draco?" he heaved.

"Don't hit her," Malfoy muttered, and Crabbe's eyebrows skyrocketed.

"_Excuse me?"_

Malfoy's mind rushed spastically. He glanced over at Hermione only for a moment, a silent apology, before turning his head back to Crabbe wearily. "J-Just d-don't knock her out before I've had a go." Hermione let out a little whimper and Draco felt almost ashamed at the guilt that flooded through his entire being.

Crabbe, however, seemed almost absolutely unconvinced. "Is that so?" he asked. He was red in the face, wild and reeling. For a split second he regarded Draco as if he had never seen him before in his entire life. Nonetheless, as soon as the gaze had sprung into light, it faded. Crabbe pulled out his wand, shoving it in the direction of his captive's heaving chest before making yet another grab towards her person. He pulled to seize her collar again and thrust her carelessly towards the center of the Cellar. Though Draco could practically see the venom dripping from his grimace; he was certain Crabbe had never been so angry in all his life.

The two watched Hermione stumble. Draco's grip on his wand was almost nonexistent. "Go on then," Crabbe was saying, but Malfoy could barely hear him over the pounding thunder that was his heart behind his sternum. "Do it." Hermione was looking at the ground, her lip split from having bitten down on it in her turmoil. Crabbe cocked his head towards her, his frown immense. He looked nothing like the friendly companion that Draco had spoken to only days before. He looked nothing like the boy he had always known.

And he was saying awfully, "prove it, Draco; prove it, like you said." Every hand gesture snapped back out to Hermione, every word spoke as if he were sending hypothetical daggers into her unsteady back. Crabbe was looking up, his aim solely to lock his eyes within Draco's gray ones. Through the fuzziness that overtook Malfoy temporarily, Crabbe commanded again,_ "do it!"_

Draco Malfoy tried as hard as he could. He thought of Hermione and her letter and the goody-two-shoes Gryffindor she was secretly trying to turn him into. He thought of her stupid S.P.E.W, and the pathetic way she'd cleaned up for the Yule Ball. Even, in his desperation, he'd remembered the way in which she'd raised her hand with the correct answer for every class, the way her smile broadened every year when Albus Dumbledore had announced, once again, that Gryffindor had won the House Cup.

He thought of her filthy, disgusting blood as a last resort.

He thought of her inferiority.

He thought of her low status and how undeserving of magic he had always thought her to be.

Yet, this time, something wasn't the same. Nothing made him hate her.

Her scream had reminded him of his mother's, her intelligence of his father. She'd been strong enough to try and fight back, been determined enough to stick out her captivity as long as she had. The look in her eyes was panicked and terrified but, despite everything, he knew that she knew his thoughts and it drove him bloody insane.

_"Do it, Draco!"_

Malfoy's head snapped up; Crabbe, he'd almost forgotten about him. The boy's eyes were bloodshot and heavy, his visage churned into something almost horrifying. It was not the look that he had grown to associate with Crabbe, but instead Lord Voldemort himself. The realization hit Malfoy hard. He had to do it; he, Draco Malfoy, had to torture her. As horrified as he was, he really saw everything in the light; this was only Crabbe, this was _nothing_. Not going along with the plan would destroy everything he had put together, would end his existence. And it wouldn't be just him, knew; they would go after his mother, go after his father...

Malfoy was shaking before he even knew it. Though he'd almost lost himself, he found his wand again. He looked back at Hermione- looked back at her one last time before his mouth formed the spell at all. _"Crucio!"_

Crabbe's smile spread, infatuated. Hermione had dropped before his feet on the ground like a ton of bricks and he couldn't have been more pleased. He watched the way in which she writhed, a satisfied little chuckle making its way from his mouth into the stale air before him. And the Cellar was filled with nothing but screams, Hermione's hoarse yells bouncing off of every wall, echoing throughout Malfoy's ears. She wiggled before the two of them, kicking and screaming, and gagging. He held the spell until she was sick, until her eyes rolled back in her head, just waiting for Crabbe to give him the heads up... until he told him to finally let go.

Crabbe's eyes were wild, snapping. "Do it, again," he urged, and Draco reluctantly spat the curse again.

_"Crucio!"_

Hermione's body reeled upwards. She tried to grab at her stomach, pulled her knees forcefully into her chest. And- _oh, God-_ maybe he was going to be sick as well. Every fiber in his very being was calling out to him to stop. Crabbe, on the other hand, had been so absorbed. His eyes watched her every flicker, took in every jolting flinch. It was as if he lived for such moments, _breathed _for them. Everything about him stood proper and easy and he took in the sight of the tormented girl with such happiness that Malfoy was almost consumed by the way in which Crabbe observed it all.

Whether it was a dream, or a nightmare, or Malfoy's fucked up reality, it was happening. He couldn't stop it, he could only spectate.

"Please!" Hermione's tortured cries sounded out from underneath him and Malfoy stumbled back, glancing down at her for a moment as he turned back to to Crabbe, asking silent permission. As expected, however, none was given. In turn, the fleshy boy only reeled back, delivering a kick to her crumpled abdomen in the process of his laughter. _"Oof!" _Hermione was bleeding from her lip, from her tongue, and from her neck. She'd snapped her head around so quickly that Draco could almost physically hear her crack. And then she crumbled back into herself so that she was just a tightly wound ball and nothing more

"Do it, again!"

_Fuck, fuck, fuck_! Malfoy didn't want to, but his hand was moving forward and he couldn't help himself. All he could think about was his pretty mother and his father who had never laid a hand on her. Lucius Malfoy, despite the bad decisions he'd made, had always been a good father, had always been a good husband. He didn't deserve to die, didn't deserve to be betrayed against everything and everyone he had ever known to believe in. And Draco couldn't let that happen, couldn't pull his family apart anymore than he already had.

And Crabbe was saying, "do it, Draco! Do it again!" and Malfoy was holding back the lump in his throat as his heart burned and his chest dropped.

He was saying, _"crucio!" _all over again before Hermione's body even had a chance to settle.

The girl's body convulsed, seizing spastically on the hard floor of the bloody Cellar. And Draco was certain she'd taken more of the curse than Rowle had, perhaps even more than he, himself, had the night he had failed to kill Dumbledore. He was surprised she'd held on as long as she did, surprised in the way that she contained so much will power to do so. Thus, when he finally heard the sounds of her screaming stop, he released the spell, staggering backwards into the stone wall, past the spare bodies of the two Muggle girls, and into the newfound silence. Crabbe only breathed out, his exhales nothing more than hard pants that rattled and croaked with every impulse.

Blinking, Crabbe looked almost incredulous. "Why'd you stop?" he asked.

Malfoy's throat was dry, but he managed a hoarse, "she's unconscious," before even starting to breathe normally again.

Crabbe sniffed. He leaned his body forward and lifted Hermione's outstretched hand with the tip of his foot. "It's about time, too," he said, sniffing contently. "Know-it-all Bitch."

Unresponsive, Draco swallowed the lump that had been bothering him. He couldn't believe it himself; he'd actually pulled it off. Yet the timid and lifeless body of Hermione Granger beneath him made him feel anything but victorious. He couldn't place his finger on it, but he felt something like a ping of guilt before Crabbe cut off his wandering thoughts once and for all.

The boy was shuffling, kneeling down towards Hermione in a desperate grab for her legs. He hoisted her up from the ground as Pettigrew had with the chubbier Muggle girl, though he found that Hermione was far easier to drag. And grunting, Crabbe glanced up from his work. He cocked his head to one side and gestured towards Granger's lulled back head. "Get that, for fuck's sake," Crabbe breathed, and Draco nodded, numbly making his way over to the girl's bloody face.

So Malfoy slipped over towards Hermione, hands outstretched, to grab the space underneath her arms. He felt sullen at the way her hair fell from her eyes, revealing the surface of her injured face. In the process of the curse, somehow Hermione had acquired a bruise above her right eye, and a split on her bottom lip. Unconscious, she allowed the two to drag her towards the wall, and Draco followed Crabbe's direction as he moved her towards the stack of Muggle girls in the corner. Thus, once he'd made it to the spot, he released her legs and let them crash violently to the ground, a pair of limbs among other limbs.

They stared down at Hermione for a long while, each too hazy to say a word. Then, when Crabbe finally looked up, he regarded Draco in a new light entirely. For a second he appeared as if he were not going to say a word, however, he blinked, taking Malfoy in strides. "Didn't- know," he said in between pants, "you- had- it- in - you."

Malfoy stared down at Hermione's unconscious visage. Her features were not relaxed, even in her slumber. Truthfully, he didn't know he'd had it in himself either. "Yeah, well," he scoffed, trying to sound bitter.

"I guess..." Crabbe exhaled, ignoring the fact that Draco had not let Hermione's upper half down to the ground yet, "guess I was wrong." Draco glared at him, his gray eyes flashing. Crabbe unexpectedly backed down. "Hey," he said, dipping his head low, "its not like I didn't have every reason to be suspicious... I mean," Crabbe continued, "you haven't exactly been yourself lately, mate."

Draco felt his chest tighten. He wished Crabbe hadn't called him that. "Is that so?" he asked, his fingers still holding on to Hermione. He resisted the urge to brush her hair out of her eyes.

"Yeah," Crabbe informed him, looking slightly submissive, "I mean, I just wasn't used to it, you know." He shrugged, surrendering slightly. There was something about him that seemed to have broken, as if all the suspicions he'd had about Malfoy had been washed away completely. Draco was not quite sure how the boy seemed to be handling it.

"Well _now _you bloody well know," he spat nonetheless, blond hair falling across his own sweaty head. He gave Crabbe a forceful glare and the boy seemed to almost shrink within himself.

"Right," he said, "now I know."

It was a weird feeling knowing that he, Draco Malfoy, had the control again. Years ago, he would have relished the notion of not being looked down upon, however, something now was different. Holding Hermione's top half up from the stone ground, Draco almost felt equally as uneasy, equally as unstable. He'd done nothing to earn his place above the others, yet he'd clarified his commitment in the mind of Vincent Crabbe. He should have felt proud or, at least, better. He felt nothing. After all had been said and done, Draco Malfoy felt no power.

There was a slight scramble and Crabbe reached slowly to readjust his coat. Then, shakily, he lifted his hand and wiped the sweat from his dripping brow. He waited a moment, breathed in and asked almost timidly, "s-shall we head back up?"

And Draco shot him another venomous glance. "You can, Crabbe," he said. There was something about his stare that was commanding and almost horrifying at the same time. "I'll join you later."

"But-"

"Crabbe, if you don't get out of here right now..."

The boy's face visibly fell. He considered Draco for a moment, eyes finding Hermione on the floor lifelessly. Then, after a split second of consideration, Crabbe's shoulders dropped. He swallowed uneasily after he had soaked in the sights before him. However, sure enough, once he had retreated several inches into the shadows, he vanished behind the bars of the Cellar and Malfoy didn't move until he heard the door at the top finally swing shut.

And even then he was at a loss.

Dipping Hermione's body gently to the ground, Malfoy fumbled into a low crouch nearest her. He didn't touch her. Instead, he watched her unconscious face as it softened with the ignorance of sleep. He muttered a quick healing spell to rejoin her split lip, finally slumping back against the stone wall to give his own body time to breathe. "Fuck," he said to no one but himself, certain that even the dead Muggle girls wouldn't have given him the time of day to hear him out. When he spoke, it was in a voice not higher than a choked up whisper. "_Fuck!"_

Hermione Granger shifted in her sleep. She turned on her side so that she faced away from Malfoy. The blond took it almost offensively, his brows knitting together as he studied her every move. Gently, Hermione moved her hands up underneath her chin, pulling her knees to her chest. She let out a sleepy moan and Draco froze. He watched her for a moment before crawling back over to her front. _No,_ he _refused_ to be turned away from. Hexing her was not his fault and, by God, she would not subconsciously treat him as if it were.

"Granger," Draco whispered, reaching his clammy palms to her face and brining it up slightly, "Granger, wake up now, he's gone."

The Gryffindor didn't even flinch. Instead, her eyes remained bruised and purple in the lack of light. Yet, with Malfoy's closer view, he saw something new on her face that he had perhaps overlooked before. There, dribbling down from her skull, had been a trickle of bright crimson blood. It looked like nothing, but the bright red fountain down Hermione's pale white skin did something to his stomach. Unable to help himself, he looked towards the Muggle girls. Hermione did not look much different. Still and lifeless, she could have just as well have been one of them.

"Hey," Malfoy hissed, helpless to decipher the feelings of nausea that arose in his throat. "Hey, wake up, okay?" he patted a sweaty hand gently on her cheek, causing her hair to bound across her emotionless face. "Come on, wake up, alright?"

He didn't know why he'd cared, but when the slow rhythm of her gently rising chest caught up with him, a wave of relief spread throughout his hunched over torso. Clumsily, his fingers found her slender wrist and he counted the seconds in between each slow pulse of her veins.

He forgot about the letter and her plan to reform him. He just couldn't let her die. Breathing out, Draco slipped back down to relax, releasing Hermione's face to settle her upper half into his lap. It was almost a subconscious gesture, done more over to calm his own body than to make her comfortable. Yet it did not feel wrong for her to be lying there with him; Malfoy, however, was not thinking about the specifics. Numb, Draco only thought about death and how hers would mean that he would be alone. Certainly he'd convinced Crabbe for the time being that he was on his side, but Malfoy was not even sure how long he could keep _that _up. Hermione was his only confidant, his secret keeper. If she died... then there'd be no hope left.

When Hermione Granger didn't wake up, but only breathed into Draco's half-bent lap, he found himself at least fractionally content. He ran his hand through her nappy brown hair without realizing it, an almost mechanic action that surprised him once he'd caught himself doing it. And then, the moment he'd pulled his fingers out of her messy locks, Draco finally seemed to snap back into reality. What was he doing? There, in the corner of the Cellar he, Draco Malfoy, was comforting his prisoner. He shouldn't have felt guilty- being a Death Eater was not only his mission, but his destiny. Yet, despite it all, he did; the thought scared him half to death.

Scrambling away, Draco regained his footing. He panted at Hermione's shadow in the dark and tried to swallow the urge to readjust her torso. Thrusting his hands into the depths of his pockets, Draco stumbled backwards, away from the girl and away from the Cellar entirely. However, when he pulled open the door and locked it instantly behind him, he still didn't feel any stabler.

A strange feeling washed over him as he stared into the empty contents of the stretched out hallway before him. He couldn't, however, place a finger on it.

* * *

_"Meet me in the clearing just before sunrise."_

The sky threatened an outright downpour as Draco scanned the front of Potter and Weasley's second letter. Too tired to even move, Draco had remembered the thing there the very moment he had heard it flapping desperately at the other side of the balcony doors. He dragged himself upwards, fingers clasping around the parchment almost bitterly before yanking it open. And there, in Potter's horrid schoolboy print, was nothing more than a single sentence.

_Clearing before sunrise_, Draco thought to himself, scanning the gently lightening sky, _how vague. _

Clad in his pyjamas, Malfoy surveyed the scene around him before slipping back carefully into the Manor. He retreated towards the back of the grand house, pulling his dark coat from the coatrack near the closet. He stuffed his feet into a pair of the closest leather shoes he could find, forgetting socks entirely. Nonetheless, he stumbled back out towards the balcony, hugging himself in the cold before staring out into the vastly open space before him.

He didn't have time to think about Potter and his stupidity. Certainly they had taken him for a bit of a pansy with his constant running around, but something about this night forced Draco not to consider any of their concerns. Instead, he descended down from the steps of the balcony, out into the great emerald yard with determination, head cast down to avoid being spotted by Vincent Crabbe from the window by their room. And yet, only when Draco broke through the barriers of the yard did he immensely pick up his pace.

He was beginning to think that this was going to be a long night. He couldn't remember the last time he got a fair amount of sleep. Nonetheless, he continued walking through the brush that was the yard _behind _the yard. He slipped passed the trees and fumbled with the letter in his coat pocket. His hand gripped the end of his wand tightly and, holding his breath, he edged further and further through the branches.

He hoped Potter and Weasley would keep their promises and be on time. He was not sure that he could stand another long night out without Crabbe getting on his back about it. Nonetheless, there was something that edged him forward and he breathed slow. Draco tried not to think about Hermione Granger and the current state of her in the Cellar below his big, grand house. For a moment he thought that he did not feel guilty, but something about him crumbled. He was not exactly sure what he'd felt about the situation, but the way that his knees locked together made him almost anxious. And, wobbling, Draco thought that perhaps it was not his fucked up ankle that made him swagger in his step.

As he stumbled by the trunks of the trees around him, Malfoy tried not to think about the way she'd screamed. Nonetheless, the wind seemed to hiss her voice in his very ears. It was as if he could not escape it. Every quick gust of air was saying to him, "M-Malfoy?" and every speedy whirl was crying out for him to stop. His head was spinning before he could help it; he felt so rushed, so heated, so... guilty. The broken and bloody body of Hermione Jean Granger was no one's fault but his own. _And he'd done it, he'd done it, he'd done it..._

"Hey!"

Malfoy swiveled around. His gray eyes locked into Potter's green and he almost lost his footing in the process. He gasped, stumbling back, and used the nearest tree trunk for support. Weasley, unnoticed before, gave a distinct grunt. "Jumpy tonight aren't we, Malfoy?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow and frowning rather suspiciously.

Potter and Weasley looked almost just as awful as Draco. Their hair was unwashed and greasy. It stuck to their heads and struck out in all different directions. As if a pair, their clothing had been slightly tattered and torn- perhaps more so than when Draco had seen them last. A large and heavy scrape lined the front of Weasley's face, gliding across the surface of his freckled visage. A dark bruise covered a small fraction of his left cheek. And Potter, too, looked just as broken. His glasses were slightly tilted on the bridge of his nose. Neither of the two had shaved. From the distance that Draco stood, he could even smell how much they reeked.

Only sneering, Draco regained himself and smoothed back his messy hair. It did him no good, but he was able to busy his hands with the process of it. Potter only gave a half-hearted frown. He studied Draco up and down, seemingly taking in the dripping sweat that drooled down from the top of his clammy forehead. "You're late," he informed him, and Draco's head snapped back up.

"Yeah, well," he hissed, "I was busy."

Turning towards Harry, Ron's face only contorted slightly. He huffed, crossing his arms across his chest stubbornly. Harry, on the other hand, nodded understandingly. However, something behind his eyes seemed to remain tightly upon Draco's entire person. He took in the sweaty mess of him, seemed to see past the act that his body stature had taken on. He did not say a word, but only regarded Draco instinctively. It was as if he could sense something rather obviously off about him.

Nonetheless, when Harry drew in his breath, he only asked, "how's Hermione?"

Malfoy stiffened. How was she? Well, she was unconscious on the floor of the Manor's stone Cellar. She was bleeding from her head and she'd been tortured with _Crucio _three times over, thanks to him. Still, Draco considered his options. However, he backtracked, feeling somewhat fuzzy. "She's..." he mused distantly, "sleeping."

"Sleeping?" Even Weasley seemed to doubt it.

Draco's eyes narrowed. He didn't say a word, but the look on his face seemed to ask, '_did I stutter?'_

There was a slight shuffle and Draco watched Potter turn towards the pocket of his trousers. When he lifted his head back up, he revealed a tiny clear vile of a potion that Malfoy had become almost too familiar with. He looked a bit guilty when he stretched it out to him. Though Malfoy knew far too well what it was, he asked anyway, "what's this?" Neither of the boys answered him and Draco, heated, shook his blond head. When Potter stretched out the vile in his direction, the Slytherin forcefully shoved it away. "Fuck off," he demanded.

"It's only fair, isn't it?" Potter said, lifting the vile of Veritaserum up into the fading light of the day. He watched Draco's face drain, shuffling his feet in his sneakers against the brush below him. Draco watched the boy's eyes behind his glasses closely. He knew he had no choice, knew that refusing the potion would only work against him. Thus, snappingly, Draco's delicate fingers curled around the vile and he whisked it so forcefully from Harry Potter's hands that the glass almost fumbled to the ground with the sheer force of it.

He glared down at the vile. Ron's eyes practically sparked. When he cocked his chin forward, his lip curled only to say teasingly, "bottom's up."

And then Draco downed its contents.

* * *

**Vonne: **Shorter chapter, I know, I'm so sorry. I've been a bit slow on time lately, but I definitely want to submit something. I will be updating this fiction's next chapter as soon as possible. Please don't hesitate to let me know what you think! Thank you so much!


	14. Ask Me Anything

**Vonne: **Chapter fourteen's title comes from The Stroke's song of the same name! I've decided to save the last two Dead Man's Bones songs for the chapters that I feel will truly fit them. Of course, the only two remaining are "Flowers Grow Out of My Grave" and "My Body's a Zombie for You". So, maybe that's a bit of a hint? Who knows? I, for one, am excited to write both of those chapters. Nonetheless, I'm currently happy that I found enough time to get chapter fourteen up now! I hope you all like it!

Unfortunately, I don't have time to answer you all tonight, as much as I'd wanted to. However, thank you so much for the interest! I got so many reviews and alerts this past week its unbelievable. Thank you for continuing to motivate me: **TragicSlytherin**, **Corey Fitzwilliam**, **StupidAmericanIdoms91**, **Sarah**, **HPpeach922 **(your first review meant so much to me! Thank you for the compliments, it truly helped me with the motivation to update tonight! I appreciate it so much!), **Isabella120**, and **Lola La Lola**.

* * *

_"I've got nothing to say_; I_'ve got nothing to give_. _Got no reason to live_, b_ut I'll kill to survive_. _I've got nothing to hide_, _wish I wasn't so shy."_

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* * *

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**Chapter Fourteen**  
**Ask Me Anything**

He instantly regretted it the very moment he felt the cool liquid of Veritaserum tumble down his throat. It was that very same feeling- the empty one that made his focus waver and his vision blur- and he stumbled back unto the stump with a heavy growl, hating the urges that rose up in his chest the very moment the potion took effect. "I fucking hate you, Potter," he told the standing figure of the rugged Boy-Who-Lived and, thanks to the truth-telling serum, he knew his statement to be honest. "Bloody git."

"Right," Harry Potter mumbled, rolling his eyes and tossing his head to the side. He let his ratty knapsack slide from his left shoulder to the ground lifelessly. Rotating his upper half, Harry managed to regain himself before pressing further with Draco. Nonetheless, he rested his palm on his hip and narrowed his green pupils inwardly. "Let's start with the basis, Malfoy: who are you?"

"Draco Malfoy," Malfoy told Potter furiously, his fingernails digging roughly into the bark of the tree trunk. He loathed the way that Ron and Harry exchanged conclusive looks, knowing all too well the amusement that bubbled up in their very beings. All the while, he only watched their hazy forms fold and twist before him, the sense of semi-murderous rage boiling up in his own feverish chest. He fiddled with his wand in his pocket, wishing that he had the strength to use it. However, his attention only circulated on the next question that tumbled from the chapped lips of Dumbledore's favorite Golden boy.

"And where do you live?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow. Apparently one test question hadn't been enough.

"Malfoy Manor," Draco responded. He wasn't sick or dreary enough to answer with slumber this time around; Harry had not bothered to mercilessly tie him to a tree and reopen or infect previous wounds. Only, Malfoy regarded Harry with so much distain that he was certain that his nails would make marks.

"And your father?"

"Lucius Malfoy." Draco rolled his eyes, spitting hastily through clenched teeth, "for fuck's sake..."

He'd had enough of the night, had enough of the stress in general. He just wanted to go to bed and get some sleep. There was, of course, something that made him shiver upon the stub that he found himself seated upon. No matter how hard he'd tried, he could not shake the overwhelming feeling of persisting guilt that reminded him of Hermione Jean Granger and the dirty, dusty Cellar floor that she currently lay unconscious on. His stomach did flips.

"Right, and how's Hermione?" Ron asked, instantly taking over. He fiddled with his wand in his wands, wriggling it between his fingers loosely. He looked just as roughed up as he had appeared the last time that he had seen him. Clothes torn and tattered, he looked as if he had stomped through a trail of thorny bushes just to make it to the clearing at all.

Malfoy chewed nervously on his lower lip. He decided upon an answer sufficient enough to get them off his back for the time being. "Alive." Ron's posture faltered. He did a visible sigh, and the flash is his eyes dulled over. Something about Malfoy even deflated as well. He looked up at Harry and then back at the Weasel. For the moment, he considered himself safe. Releasing his grip on the tree trunk underneath him, Draco's face signified his exhaustion. He held out his hand, wriggling his fingers expectantly. "The antiserum?" he asked, blond hair falling lifelessly across his clammy forehead.

Both Ron and Harry exchanged yet another set of glances, their brows raised curiously at one another. Harry's hands gave in and he reached towards the breast pocket of his jacket. However, Ron stepped forward, his torso bent low. His blue eyes narrowed once again and, this time, Draco didn't feel so content anymore. "What," he asked hesitantly, and he drew his arm back ever so slightly.

"Your knuckles..." Ron began as if speaking to himself and his tone made Malfoy flinch. His knuckles? What in the bloody hell... ?

Draco drew back his hand, glaring down at his flesh closely. He hadn't noticed it before, but the skin across just below his left hand's fingers had been scraped, and rather significantly so. Fresh blood flowed down the front and mixed in vibrantly with his pale white skin. In the wind, Malfoy felt the sudden impact of the moving air against his exposed flesh and he hissed, despite himself. However, drawing back, he felt himself anxious at the sudden interest of one Ron Weasley. "What about them?" Draco asked, a feeling of breathlessness escaping him quickly.

"Your knuckles, Malfoy," Ron repeated, thrusting out his own, scraped hand, "let's see them."

Malfoy drew his knuckles forward compliantly, his breaths low and shallow. He wracked his brain carefully trying to think how he could have possibly have injured himself. However, everything kept linking back. He remembered drawing Hermione's unconscious body up from the floor of the Cellar, assisting Crabbe as he moved her towards the other bodies that had been placed there. He had not felt pain, but he knew that he must have snagged his skin against the stone in the process of moving her. Fear gripped him instantly; he hadn't even realized, but now it was far too late.

Even Harry started forward, his green eyes turned into two distinct slits. Behind his shimmering spectacles, the boy had definitely seen the damage. For a moment he contemplated the sight, his fingers slipping from his grip on his wand before he even bothered tightening it again. Something about him seemed to realize and, carefully, he drew his glasses up to the top of his face with a quick jabbing of his wiry index finger. He cleared his throat, starting off small before growing into any sort of tone whatsoever. "Malfoy," Harry began slowly, "what happened to your hand?"

"I scraped it," Draco informed them, feeling instantly heated. Reddening, Draco wished he had been ignorant. However, he was certain about it now. There was no other possible way he could have cut himself and now he knew.

Ron dipped down his red head, his eyes still scanning Draco's bloody knuckles slyly. "How?"

"Assisting Crabbe." Draco chewed maliciously on his lower lip. He knew he'd been trapped, despite being able to wriggle his way out of the first few questions easily. Nonetheless, the question that he only knew was coming only seemed to linger tauntingly in the air before the three of them like some horrible joke.

"Assisting Crabbe with what?" Harry asked Draco, his own hair falling lifelessly across his face. He'd grown it long over his months of hiding out and his face looked scruffy despite being hidden half way by shadows.

Malfoy's teeth clenched hard on his lower lip. He averted his eyes and cursed the obvious form of injury on his exposed arm. He should have been more careful, he thought before choking out the urge to spill the truth. Nonetheless, as predicted, he could not prevent it from tumbling desperately out from his mouth. "Moving Granger," he spat, fumbling with his speech clumsily.

_"Expelliarmus!"_ hissed Ron before Draco could even close his mouth and, whimsically, Draco's stick-like wand swept out from his grip and landed almost impressively into Ron's outstretched hand. It took Draco a moment to register the action, for it had happened so fast before his eyes. It left him staring at his empty hand for several moments before he could even allow himself to snap his head back up and sneer furiously at Weasley conclusively.

"You slimy little-" Malfoy began, but was cut off by Ron's demanding voice again.

"Moving her where?" Out came the wands, Ron's so close to the tip of Draco's nose that he was forced to scramble back.

True to his Slytherin ways, Draco spat, "across the room," before instantly regretting trying to dodge the question at all. Ron seemed to loose all control of himself and Draco lost hope of ever appearing superior to his two Gryffindor schoolmates at all. A slender and freckled hand swiped at the air in front of him and Draco felt the collar of his shirt as it was lifted up from his body. He growled bitterly as he was hoisted, using his own hands to grab at the fabric of Ron's clothing, as well. He ignored Harry's yelling from behind him and instead stumbled over the brush on the ground below him, feet whipping up wildly as he was swung to the center of the clearing.

Nonetheless, true to the bravery that he had always annoyingly possessed, Harry turned violently on the soles of his shoes. He kicked up leaves as he did so, lunging towards Ron with full intent to free Draco from his best mate's clutches. "Hey!" he called out as he paraded towards them. "Ron, stop it!"

"No! Harry, he's hiding something and I can tell!" The anxiety laced behind Ron's facial expression almost made Malfoy shrink. He'd seen the way Ron had looked at Hermione in school, had often times even poked fun at him for it. However, now he knew that he had messed with the wrong person. Panting, Draco took the moment he watch Weasley closely. Even turned towards Harry, Ron's pale face had reddened to the point of resembling a tomato. His blue eyes glistened with tears.

However, despite any indication that Harry had set out to help him, Draco watched the famous Gryffindor sink down. He watched Ron for a moment and then, swallowing, ran a shaking hand through his dark hair. His emerald eyes swung towards Draco, shaking his head as if he did not truly want to hear him say it out loud. Harry nodded, but did nothing more with his mouth. Only Ron, who turned stonily back towards Malfoy, took it upon himself determinedly. And then came the question that Draco had been expecting since the beginning of the interrogation. "What did you do to Hermione, Malfoy?"

He held it in for as long as he could but, in the end, it all came tumbling out from him anyways. "Crucio," he told the two of them quietly, and he wasn't exactly surprised when Ron's hand came reeling back to plummet it forcefully into the front of his cold and expecting face.

"Bastard!" Ron hollered, watching Draco's nose spring a fresh new fountain of bright red blood. It dripped and dribbled down the front of his face, smoothing down the lines of his lips and running into the very front of his clothing. Ron's leg jerked back. He did not deliver a kick into Draco's body, but instead sent a collection of frozen over leaves at his hunched over torso. He bent forward, arms waving wildly, and seized the front of Draco's shirt roughly. "I'll make you pay!"

Draco dodged the second fast-moving fist that came his way, scooting backwards against the brush just in time to see Ron stagger forward. Harry, however, had also made a quick leap. His own fingers jolted over his wand and Draco found it poking the side of his face like an annoying and persistent fly. "Hold on, Ron," Harry breathed, though his own face was streaked with sweat. He lifted a hand and the redhead stumbled back, his chest rising and falling so furiously that Draco would not have been surprised if it had pained him. "When?"

Malfoy glanced up at the sky. It had only just begun to darken, but the excess of churning gray clouds also suggested the threat of an outright disaster. "This afternoon," Malfoy found himself saying before he could even help it.

"Son of a _bitch_!" roared Ron and Harry had to physically restrain him around his slender and squirming waistline.

Flinching, Malfoy pressed his gray eyes shut as Harry held Ron back. However, he only scuttled back several inches before his injured ankle cracked underneath him. Yelping helplessly, Draco's hands flew to it, his newly bleeding knuckles open and stinging relentlessly. He loathed himself for the only moment he had to his thoughts; he'd turned into something rather pathetic and now he had nothing reasonable to defend himself from the idea of it.

"Don't, Ron, _stop!"_ Harry was calling out, his own face ripe with the redness that it had taken on from holding his friend back and away from the writhing blond on the floor. "Ron!"

However, despite the effort, Ron Weasley had proved he had possessed more strength than perhaps either of the boys had given him credit for. With one swift push, the boy managed to free himself from Harry's tightly wound clutches, swaying on the brush for only a moment before regaining himself and stalking towards Malfoy with fire burning in his lovely blue eyes. "You slimy little _snake!"_ he hissed, reaching forward again and wrapping his fingers around Draco's collar with a furious holler.

He wasted no time in his mission, of course, and he had almost no trouble with the struggling blond. Freshly lifted from the ground, Ron forced Malfoy to stagger backwards on his feet, his own torso so close to Malfoy's that he breathed rather aggressively against him. Nonetheless, he slammed Malfoy against the nearest tree trunk as a hoarse and dry yelp emitted from the Slytherin's stumbling mouth. Then freckled fingers found the end of his wand. _"Ron-" _Harry cried out, exasperated, but Weasley did not let loose of his grasp.

"NO! Harry, you heard him!" Ron accused, jabbing the end of his weapon into Draco's lifted and arched out chest. "You heard what he said! He _tortured _her, Harry!" Ron's voice was broken and distraught. His shoulders huffed and puffed with passion and he jabbed his hand underneath Malfoy's quivering chin, holding it almost ruthlessly in place with applied pressure. "How about," Ron said to Draco this time in between each breathless pant, "I show _you_ just how _Crucio _feels, eh, Malfoy?"

Writhing, Draco fought against Ron's intense grasp but only ended up twisted. He did not need to be reminded of the pains of _Crucio; _just the mere mention of it brought back memories to him that he would have rather left untouched. Granted, he was certain even Hermione had suffered longer than he had and, despite himself, the fact made him weaker with just the simple thought of it all. And, with the full knowledge to what Ron was threatening, Draco's body sunk deeper against the hard bark. So he'd known by personal experience, but he did not bother to inform Ron of that. Instead, he only managed to let out a pathetic little yelp. "_No!" _he cried desperately.

Ron's thin body turned back towards Draco half way. "No?" he asked, his wand still raised. "No?"

Draco's head shook anxiously, "_please_," he begged, and he was far too dizzy to care about sounding desperate.

Laughing bitterly, Ron leaned forward into Draco's face. His spotted features met closely with Malfoy's delicately pointed ones. A dangerous noise emitted from his throat and Draco saw the spark of life that flickered behind Ron's entire demeanor. He had never seen the boy so furious in all his life and, just before the boy spoke, Draco was reminded of the ways in which wars destroyed people. "And why, pray tell, shouldn't I?" he growled.

Still shaking his head, Draco felt his throat ache with dryness. He, however, had not stopped moving. Instead, he swallowed, feeling the truth tumble out from his mouth without truly trying to stop it from spilling outwards at all. Ron's grip tightened at Draco's neck and the blond let out a horrified gasp before starting off. "I-I d-didn't mean to!" he rasped, and even Ron did a double take.

_"What?"_ the youngest Weasley boy asked, his fingers loosening up reactively. He blinked, finding himself rather caught off guard by Malfoy's honest answer.

The boy's blond hair was hanging shaggily in his pale and stricken face. "I _said_ I didn't bloody mean to," he spat, gray eyes flashing furiously. He lifted his hands to untangle himself from Ron Weasley's tightly wound grasp, and ended up only being slammed back into the tree trunk as a second shocked gasp shot out from his throat.

"What the bleeding Hell is _that_ supposed to mean?" Ron asked, his face draining. He turned towards Harry, who's stance visibly signified his uncertainty, and then whipped around back towards Draco.

Malfoy bit back the urge to answer him and managed, much to his surprise, to spit out, "get your filthy hands off me, Weasley!"

Ron's grip did not tighten, but it did not loosen either. Instead, he struck out his hand and slammed it urgently at the bark next to Malfoy's head. Even the sheer wind of it made Draco's hair sway. Malfoy's eyes shifted back towards Harry, however, the boy had not moved from his position in the clearing at all. Instead, he appeared confused, his brows furrowed beneath the visible sweat that tainted his blotched face. "What's it mean, Malfoy?" he demanded.

Frustrated, Draco let the words pour forcefully from his lips. "It means I had to!" he told them, the animosity almost blatantly obvious through his every spoken word. "I didn't think it would work, but it did and I hadn't anticipated it..." Draco's eyes flashed. He reached forward and shoved Ron so strongly off of him that the boy fumbled backwards and almost lost his footing.

"Why?" Ron roared, once he had regained himself fully.

Draco could have laughed. When he did, however, it was not loaded. Instead, he lifted his fingers to his nose, contemplating his throbbing face before drawing his hands away to examine his fingers covered in an ample amount of bright red blood. "I live in a house full of _Death Eaters_, you daft-"

_"Why?" _Ron repeated. He did not move, but his posture was turned towards the ground, with only his chin lifted. His shoulders moved with his every breath and Draco couldn't help but think that Weasley resembled something of a zombie at that moment, rising up wearily from the grave he'd been damned to.

Not bothering to wipe his face clean from the blood, Draco whisked his stray hairs from his face by shoving them angrily behind his ears. He hated the sense of urgency that Potter's bloody potion had risen in him however, he still did not feel the need to walk away. He wondered for a quick moment if he regarded being questioned by Harry and Ron as less threatening than having to go back to the Manor to face his friends and the watchful eyes of the monitoring Death Eaters, wherever it was that they were...

Thus, Draco spoke in between sharp breaths of his own. "Crabbe," he panted. "He wanted me to prove my _loyalty_." He basically spat the word, a newfound anger rising within him at the mere reminder of it all. Then, harshly, Draco growled again, "I wasn't expecting it to _work!"_

There came a silent moment and then even Ron managed to still himself. However, he only straightened his crumbled back, allowing Harry to start forward, his limbs tiredly tracking across the ground almost mechanically. "How is she?" he asked breathlessly, ignoring the rather vibrant blood at Draco's flustered front. "How is she now?"

"She's..." Draco started before stopping. She was what? Fine? Lucky to be alive? Having suffered an ample amount of the spell, Draco was surprised that she hadn't been driven to insanity. However, the more that he thought about it, the more he started to considered the worst- he didn't even know _what _the effects of the spell had been on her. She hadn't even woken up from her sleep yet. "She's unconscious."

"And _breathing?" _Harry hoarsely pressed on, sweat spotting into distinct little balls on the side of his temples anxiously. Draco couldn't help but notice; he was shaking.

"And breathing," Malfoy clarified.

However, Ron only lifted an uncertain brow. "You _checked_?" he asked, heaving. His previous brawl with the blond had certainly taken the wind out of him.

"Of course I bloody well checked on her," Malfoy answered. Though the serum in his system made him answer both Potter and Weasley's questions honestly, it did not force him to answer the question with any sort of politeness whatsoever. Still, he found himself almost dumbfounded that Ron would even bother to ask something so profoundly stupid.

Yet something about Ron's face did not signify that he was satisfied. He stalled, cocking his head to one side as if trying to figure something out. Then, after a slight moment had passed, Ron started out wearily, "why'd you do that?"

Draco's face flushed; something about Ron's question seemed to have a double meaning behind it. Though his words asked rather harshly, his eyes posed a whole new question entirely. Even the structure of his stature made Draco anxious. It seemed, beyond all things, that Ron had been asking him why he'd even cared enough to do so. Draco contemplated the question, though he wasn't certain why he'd felt a rush of embarrassment at admitting it. Yes, he'd _checked_ on her, thank you very much. Still, he was not truly certain why. The lack of knowledge sent shivers up his spine. "I don't know," he answered awkwardly, but his reply seemed to go unnoticed by Harry, who stepped out from the shade and stumbled back into view.

Ron, on the other hand, finally seemed to be at a loss for words.

"She's okay, then?" Harry asked, eyes locking upon Draco with sheer desperation. And that's what the War was all about, Draco thought in that moment, staring at his worst enemy with what seemed to lack distain. War was about desperation. That's why he was there, wasn't it? It was why he'd even agreed to meet Harry and Ron in the clearing in the first place. Desperation drove his every act, consumed him, despite not wanting to truly admit it.

It took Draco a moment to register that Harry had even spoken, he was far too consumed with Granger, and desperation, and the War, and his fucking bloody nose. Nonetheless, he couldn't fight the urges that kept him from lying. Instead, he shook his head uncertainly, a rather curious lump rising in his throat as he offered the two the only thing that the truth-telling potion would allow him to. Malfoy could only shrug.

A slight moment of discomfort passed between the three of them, yet finally Harry relaxed, breathing out as he smoothed the fluff of black hair back against his head restlessly. "Right," he murmured, staring at the ground beneath his feet. He muttered something distinctly to himself and then bent over. He searched the ground for a moment before locating Draco's discarded wand. Then, reactively, he picked the thing up from the ground and tossed it lightly towards Draco, watching him sputter towards it despite initial difficulty.

After a quick second, Malfoy found the strength to spin back on Potter, his gray eyes flashing. Breathing fiercely, Draco tightened his grip on his newly returned wand. "Why'd you owl me, Potter?" he asked, his voice an almost exhausted hiss.

Potter shifted. He opened his mouth and then closed it, smoothing his hair back for the third time since Draco had seen him that night. "The Ministry has been taken over, Malfoy," he informed the blond, readjusting himself almost nervously. "There's been a lot going on in the Wizarding World..." he paused for a moment, stepping forward ever so slightly, "even over the past couple of days."

"And what's new, Potter?" Malfoy asked, this time feeling a bit of a rush at being the one to demand answers this time around. "What's changed so drastically that you had to call me here and put _my_ life on the line yet again-?"

"_YOU'RE _life?" Ron roared. But Harry silenced him with a small gesture and Ron, who had reeved forward, outraged, shut his mouth bitterly. It did not, however, stop him from starting daggers in the direction of the equally as angry Slytherin.

Harry didn't even bother to take in another breath. Only, he started back into his speech as if Ron hadn't even interrupted in the first place. "Moody's dead," Harry offered, lifting a brow. Draco didn't even flinched; he'd figured one of them was bound to go sometime soon. Moody, the Auror, was almost fated to be the first. "The Death Eaters have taken over the Ministry?" Finally, when Draco did not seem to react to his new news, either, Harry took a break. He wiped his arm thickly across his head, removing some of the sweat. "Why am I under the impression that you've heard all of this already, Malfoy?" he asked, somewhat defeated.

"I may be living in the dark at the Manor,_ Potter,_ but I'm certainly not living under a _rock_," Draco snorted, still lacking the motivation to clean his blood smeared visage.

Harry bloody Potter and his fucking _assumptions. _Malfoy watched the scared boy shift curiously on the brush of the clearing and strain his throat. "Right," he muttered to himself. "They've been letting you know about what's been going on, then?" he asked, but it lacked any sort of maliciousness. Instead, he seemed to be only truly inquisitive.

"Not exactly, Potter," replied Draco, still unhappy with the effects of the potion that made the answer bubble up in his very throat. "But they inform us of whatever they deem necessary."

_"Us?" _pressed Ron, who had taken on a sort of unnecessary and defiant stature in front of Draco. "Who's 'us'?"

"Crabbe, Goyle, and myself," Draco informed him quickly, rather blatantly annoyed.

"And they've been informing you?" Potter asked again, ignoring Ron's outburst. He regarded Draco, alone, emerald eyes scanning him up and down hastily. "Even if they've been feeding the three of you... err, watered down information, then, they've been informing you?"

Draco felt a swell of something clench his chest bitterly. Thinking about the Death Eaters and their censored form of sending him information- if any at all- made him almost boil. He snorted again, tossing his head in consideration. "If you'd even call it 'watering it down'," Malfoy spat, almost bitter at the mere thought of it.

Sighing, Harry once again tossed his weight. "Just answer the question, Malfoy," he said, as if Draco had been giving him a hard time with answering him during the course of their entire meeting.

For a split second, Draco thought back to the night that had revealed Peter Pettigrew in the center of his darkened living room. He'd been told that the Death Eaters were keeping their eyes on him and, though he had not a true moment to register it beforehand, now it only just started to piss Draco Malfoy off. They didn't trust him and, even though they had no real reason to- Draco's meeting with Harry Potter in the clearing was proof of that- Draco could not help but remain bitter. And, this, his newfound discovery of hatred for the entire lot of them doubled in size right then and there. Rather harshly, Malfoy gave his hair a quick run through with his fingers. "They're telling us what they want us to hear, Potter, does that answer your question?" he said begrudgingly.

Huffing rather blatantly, Ron tossed his eyes. Draco didn't even jump. "Right," was Harry's only statement, and then Malfoy just mimicked Ron's eye roll.

"Word of the day, eh, Potter?" he snapped, causing Harry's face to redden with what he could only guess was embarrassed acknowledgement. There was a pause and then, shoving his wand into the pocket of his trousers, Draco chewed conclusively on his lower lip. "Will that be all?" he asked, mockingly sarcastic.

Stiffly, Harry nodded, his hair falling back over his face. Nonetheless, Draco breathed out a harsh sigh of relief, tossing his hand out for the antiserum. Yet, when Potter did not deliver, Malfoy's patience instantly faltered. "Aren't you forgetting something?" he asked, wriggling his fingers like an overturned spider.

Harry's face was crumbled up curiously. He did not look strong and he did not look demanding. In fact, something about Harry appeared desperate, though Draco did not hold it against him. However, he did not speak out against him. Instead, he froze his fingers, lifting his eyes to scan the boy in front of him closely. He was almost surprised to find that Potter did not even make a move to back off in the slightest. "You'll check on her?" he finally asked and his hope almost seeped through his very spoken words.

It was as if Potter had truly wanted nothing more in the world than to know that Hermione Granger was alright. Everything about his stature practically begged for it. He did not move a muscle expect to plead with his eyes, wet and sloppy with glistening intensity. He'd seen pathetic things in his life, but Potter's expression topped them all. Yet, try as he might, he couldn't even offer the annoying golden boy even the slightest sneer.

"Malfoy..." muttered Harry, letting his shoulders drop solemnly. He swallowed before bothering to ask again. "You'll check on her?"

Draco stole his hand back, letting it dangle at his side almost lifelessly. He bit his lower lip to keep the answer from tumbling out of his mouth. Rather, he offered a curt nod and, almost instantly, Potter's fingers located the vile of antiserum in the breast pocket of his faded red jacket.

Malfoy wasted no time in consuming it, of course. The moment his fingers grasped the cold exterior, he thumbed off the top and lifted the ends to his mouth. A wave of sweet simplicity washed over him the very moment that the liquid tumbled down his throat. No longer did he feel the urgency to answer any questions delivered to him with truths. Instead, he only slumped back against the tree trunk nearest him and breathed out, thankful for his newfound sense of absolute freedom and secrecy.

When he opened his eyes again, they were glistening with gratitude, though not for Potter.

"Feeling better?" Ron asked, his voice dripping with venom and sarcasm. However, Harry only extended his arm forward and spun his best mate around on his heels, directing Weasley's attention away from Malfoy just slightly. Draco, on the other hand, didn't even bother to give him the time of day. He looked up slightly and then, the moment he'd done it, relaxed back within himself.

Instead, he turned back to Harry, a far more vital question on his mind. "Oy!" he called out, noting that the two had begun to make their way away from him completely, "can we quit it with the Veritaserum next time?" His back almost scraped against the bark, but he had grown beyond the point of caring about his aching upper torso. "I think we've gone a bit beyond this utter nonsense," Draco added, lifting the empty vile of what used to be antiserum. Nose still bleeding, he tossed the glass into the leaves with bitter force. "Don't you think?"

A stifled laugh sounded out from Ron's dry throat. He whisked his shoulder away from Harry's grasp, tilting his head curiously. "What the bloody hell are you on about?" he asked flatly, though the tone of his voice was tired. Though Harry had seemed to lack the willpower to continue arguing with Draco before, Ron's suddenly novel demeanor only showed the fading aspects of his furiousness.

"I don't _have_ to meet you lot anywhere," Draco told the two of them, bending forward with a forceful exhale. He gripped his knees and tried to regain himself quickly. A splash of red blood tumbled from the tip of his pointed features, and fell down to taint the ground below his feet. Grimacing, Draco lifted his thumb and his forefinger to pinch the bridge of his nose and tilt his head back every so slightly. The excessive amount of sweat made his hair stick to the front of his face, assumedly glued there.

Harry's features fell. He let his fingers drop from Ron's body entirely and, exhaling, started off slow. "Malfoy-"

Through the clogged nasal passages caused by his pair of pinching fingers, Draco's voice was something of an unintentional whine. "- I don't _have_ to agree to do anything with either of you, you know..." he continued, cutting Harry off quickly.

"I just think it's precautionary to-"

"Fuck_ 'precautionary'_," Malfoy recoiled, eyes giving off a rather vibrant flash. Harry stopped, if only for a moment, and returned to his futile hair rustling. He gave a quick sigh, feet planted firmly on the ground, and chewed mercilessly on his lower lip. Just as he was about to open his mouth, however, Draco cut him off. "Or, of course, I could choose the option of not meeting either of you here at all?"

Ron's eyes fell. "Bastard," he mumbled to no one but himself and Draco's thin lips twitched up into a rather triumphant smile.

"Fine," Harry agreed, lifting his shoulders. His voice was not begrudged, but blatant. He lifted his eyebrows as if challenging him to prove that he could be trusted in time for their next meeting.

"I'm still brining it, just incase," Ron added, unsatisfied. Draco's smirk doubled; despite the bloody nose, he still truly did enjoy getting a rise out of Potter and Weasley.

Only Harry kept his facial features hitched upwards. "No more curses on Hermione, Malfoy," he said, bending down low to retrieve the knapsack that he had discarded from earlier.

Malfoy snorted, not offering any sort of true answer to the boy. He'd do whatever he had to; Potter knew that, of course, though Draco assumed that he'd far more fancied living in absolute ignorance. "Thanks for wasting our time, Malfoy," Ron called sarcastically, a mocking sort of smile on his face as he whisked up his own bag and headed out into the cluster of trees to disappear all over again.

"Don't mention it, Weasel-Bee! Thanks for the bloody fucking nose, by the way; Lord knows I needed another broken bone!" He waved with an equal amount of sarcasm before rolling his gray eyes and watching Ron's red head vanish beyond the shadows.

"Just do your fucking job," was the last thing he heard the freckled boy murmur and even Malfoy was uncertain as to whether or not he'd even heard him correctly.


	15. Bad Blood

**Vonne: **Hello again! I'm so excited to submit a new chapter that's a bit longer than the previous ones! Thank you so much for the reviews and alerts! I read them all and enjoying doing it, too! I apologize for the slight wait on this chapter. However, I've filled it up with tons and tons of fluff, I promise! And yes, in case anyone was wondering, this chapter's title is called after a song under the same name by Bright Eyes! I thought some of the lyrics fit this chapter perfectly!

**Corey Fitzwilliam: **Potter and Weasley are improving just a bit, aren't they? Perhaps sometime soon, they'll get Draco to cooperate without the use of any sort of potion, huh? Well, baby steps, right? That's all that matters, for now at least? Thanks so much for your reviews. I appreciate them!

**Stupidamericanidoms91:** Hah, well, what can you do, boys will be boys, right? Perhaps Hermione's guidance will snap some sense into Draco, at least. I'm so glad you liked the last chapter. I hope you enjoy this one, as well.

**Isabella120: **Thank you so much! I hope you like this chapter, as well!

**LivelyMcBrighten: **Thank you very much! I'm so glad that you liked the last chapter, and I hope that you like this chapter as well- I tried to make it really long and fluffy for those that have been waiting for that first Hermione/Draco connection. I hope you like it!

**Psychic City: **Hah, don't worry about it! All is, as always, forgiven. Your reviewing anyway makes me smile.

**MCLanna: **Thank you very much! I'm happy that you saw Draco's changes, at least a bit. I'm glad I pulled that off even slightly. Thank you!

**LECandeh: **Exactly! Though Harry and Ron's actions are a bit drastic, you have to at least somewhat feel for them. I'm so glad that you understood the last chapter. Thank you so much and I hope that you like this chapter just as much.

**Lizard: **Aw, thank you very much! I'm so glad that you're liking this story so far and I appreciate your review- you've made my day. Anndd, I'm so happy that you enjoyed the dialogue. I hope it seemed at least slightly realistic in that sense. It takes me so long to figure out what everyone is going to say to each other. So, thank you, thank you! I'm so stoked. I hope that you love this chapter just as much as you have the rest of the story. I made it extra lengthy this time.

**Sarah: **Helloo again! I'm so happy to hear from you every time- you usually are always my first reviewer so, honestly, thank you! Don't worry about submitting a lengthy review. I just love hearing any sort of feedback at all. I hope you like this chapter and have time to finish it, despite the school work. Believe me, I feel your pain.

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_"When the last light on goes out, I'm stranded in my bed. So I think about the bad luck; the bad blood, that may have come between two good souls."_

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**Chapter Fifteen  
Bad Blood **

The moment Draco Malfoy walked through the doors of the dark Manor to find that the feeling of guilt regarding he and Hermione Granger still made his fucking chest ache, he knew that it was going to be a long night. Sighing, Malfoy mentally cursed himself when he found that he was staring down the shaded hallway, eyes fixated on the lingering door at the end. Why he caught himself with the urge to step towards it was a mystery, and when he did, it almost terrified him. He told himself that his interest in her was purely professional, on business and partnership terms; he wasn't actually concerned. Yet, despite the doubt, he was still approaching it, still reaching for the handle, and still creaking it open. All in all, he absolutely loathed himself for it.

"Granger?" It was the first thing Malfoy had hissed when he'd tumbled down the steps, feet scuffling over the stone ever so silently, as if any slight sound could wake Crabbe and Goyle. "Granger, are you awake down here?"

Malfoy received no answer but the occasional drip of the leak in the ceiling. It sputtered against the stone and echoed in the damp room that surrounded him. And he could smell nothing but the stench of rotting and decaying corpses, the awful aroma circulating about his nose so much so that he had to hold his breath. He sniffed, a last attempt to hold in the blood that still trickled down his front, and used the walls as support, gray eyes still scanning the blackness within. _"Granger!"_

A soft sigh sounded out from the depths of the Cellar; Hermione breathed evenly. Peaceful and ignorant murmurs spilled from her parted lips and, though he couldn't see her, Malfoy followed the gentle sounds until his eyes adjusted to the curled up outline of her slender body at the edge of the room. Muttering bitterly to himself, Draco bent down to her, extending out his palm to slide back the strands of ragged brown hair that sat slanted across her face and, underneath, she was just as bruised as he was. However, he couldn't help himself to investigate; mechanically, Malfoy brushed the tips of his fingers over the surface of her cheek as if mesmerized. He curled his thumb underneath her chin, bringing her face up slightly, and then ran it over the slice that had pulled open her lower lip.

And such a tragedy they both had become; she, bloodied on the floor of a Cellar and he, pathetic and obedient like Potter's very own lapdog. Though he tried to push away the unwelcome thoughts of their current lives, Draco found himself thinking that, really, he'd never have expected either of them to have ended up where they were then. As a Hogwarts student, the most he'd been worried about was the way his blond hair fell or whether or not Potter would crash his broom during the week's Quidditch match. Everything now, he thought, had just gone downhill. He could care less about his hair- which looked messy and unkempt at all times of the day- and he could care less about Potter's flying abilities- at least, on a sportsman's level. Survival was the only thing that clouded his mind; it consumed him. It made him weak. As he stared down at Hermione Granger, thumb still pressed lightly over her lips, he wished that he was back in school and that life was just all that simple.

_"Mmm..." _Hermione's lips shut lightly against Malfoy's thumb and, taken aback, Draco froze. However, the minute mutter did not wake her. Only having stirred, Hermione shifted against the stone, pulling herself closer to Malfoy than what had been perhaps necessary. Yet the blond only watched as Hermione scooted forward, arms sliding from her waist to find refuge at the hem of Malfoy's trousers. She gave the pant leg a gentle tug and curled her fingers around it, letting her cheek rest against the palms of her own hand that then sat perched against Malfoy's exposed shin. Brown hair bundled up around his ankle and Draco, dumbfounded, reacts cautiously, careful not to move, though rather too horrified to wake her.

Yet, after a while, Malfoy's hands found the ground and, with a gentle pushing motion, made the attempt to free himself. He slipped his free leg away timidly and, just as he was about to start in on the other, his eyes found the whole of Hermione's face in the darkness. Hair pulled away with her visage exposed, Hermione's front, though certainly tainted, looked rather beautiful in her sleep. He noticed the way that he long lashes sat low against the top of her cheeks and now her nose, red at the tip from the cold, looked rounded and perky just above her trembling lips. Her torso, slightly twisted, rest at and angle on the floor and, much to Draco's dismay, revealed just three inches of her stomach. Malfoy's fingernails dug deeper into the ground below him.

It had been, of course, a long while since Draco had seen another woman that was not his aunt Bellatrix or his own mother, and perhaps that fact was the sole reason that Malfoy had found himself so drawn to Hermione at that moment. However, something about the girl seemed to strike beyond that. Even in filth and grease, she looked almost flawless, as if her features could not be ruined by the overwhelming bits of dirt that covered her carelessly. And, though Draco had not been with many girls, he was horrified to find that he had never seen one that looked as flawless as Granger had. Even Pansy, pretty and proper behind her disguise of vibrant makeup, seemed distant, dolled-up, and unnatural. It made his stomach churn and he hated it. Certainly he had noticed that the obnoxious know-it-all was attractive- much to his resentment, of course- but this... this was different.

He didn't move anymore and it was as if he couldn't think of the mechanics behind an action like that, anyways. Rather, everything sort of seemed to stop and Draco couldn't tell which way was up and down, and he wanted to slap himself out of it, but his body only kept him rooted. And then he was saying out loud to no one but the bare stone walls, "fuck!"

Delicate, spidery, musicians hands curled into his blond locks and he told the dripping water that hit the ground readily, "fuck!"

He didn't want to harm Hermione anymore, but it wasn't that simple fact that scared him. It was that he didn't want to harm her at all- not even just a little bit. Granted, he still desired to smack her pretty features square off of her face, but even _that_ seemed to be too far beyond him. And if he'd never thought that he would end up where he was, he certainly would have never guessed that he'd be suppressing the urge to whisk up the injured Hermione and put her in his bed just so she didn't have to sleep on the uncomfortable, uneven ground anymore.

He told the metal bars, "fuck!"; he told the pair of rotting and deceased Muggle girls, "_fuck!"_

Malfoy wondered what his father would think if he had seen him allowing Hermione to rest her head on his lap. He wondered if he'd be more disappointed in him now than he had been the night that he had failed to kill Dumbledore. Then, before he could wonder anything else, he told Hermione-fucking-Granger, "fuck!"

This wasn't happening to him, wasn't happening to him because he... he was _Draco Malfoy _and _oh God_, she was Hermione Granger. She was a Mudblood, for fuck's sake, which meant that her blood was filthy, but looking down at her now, Malfoy only saw red and nothing more. And it looked normal- normal, untainted, uninteresting red. There was no dirt in her veins and she did not bleed in revolting, unsightly colors. She bled like his mother and his father, bled like him- like his nose that was running and intermixing with the blood on her arm and even when he looked closely he couldn't tell who's blood was who's.

He contemplated for a second the notion that perhaps the Death Eaters would be able to smell it on him- the betrayal. Like a child, he hoped 'Mudblood' wasn't contagious. He scooted back, though only to prove to himself that he could do it, and his sudden movement sent Hermione's head crashing to the ground once again. Though Malfoy couldn't help but wince, a smile passed over his face at the thought of having beaten his curse. The pained look that spread across her slowly rousing features signified that he'd hurt her. It was, of course, unintentional, but at least it had been something- right?- at least doing so wasn't an _absolute _impossibility.

His smile doubled when a soft noise emitted from her throat and her hand slipped up to comfort her freshly throbbing head. A soft hum slumped from her throat and then her bright brown eyes blinked dubiously open. She took her wake in strides, too, making Malfoy watched paralyzed as her face contorted, tightening before relaxing and then tightening all over again. She smoothed her greasy hair back and it stayed there slicked for a moment before wandering into her eyes for the second time. However, she didn't say a word, only opened and shut her eyes in the darkness as if solely to adjust herself.

"Malfoy?" she asked, once she'd spotted him.

_"Ugnuh?" _was the only thing Draco's throat produced as a possible answer.

Hermione glanced around, relaxing to find that Vincent Crabbe was visibly not in her presence. "How long have you been here?" Long eye lashes flapped curiously before him and Draco Malfoy wanted to pluck them each out from the pores of her skin one by once.

"Just got here," Malfoy snapped, though he wasn't exactly sure why he'd hissed at her; she didn't even seem to resent him for the torture he'd participated in only hours earlier.

The blond saw the girl inch forward, despite holding his fingers in front of his face to stop the free-flowing blood from his nostrils. She swallowed unsteadily and then peered back at Draco in all that lack of light. "What happened to your nose?" she asked.

"_Weasley_ happened to it," Draco reported, scoffing. He shot her an accusatory look. Drawing his hands away, Malfoy winced when an excess of clogged up red pooled back out all over him. "Dammit."

Granger watched the blood trickle down his chin, following the trail with her eyes. Then, rather quickly, she looked away and back at his visage as an entirety. "You saw them?" came Hermione's next question. Her voice sounded so raspy and sleepy, matching her face that drooped down from lack of proper rest. She rubbed her hand across her face, cupping her temples as if to rid herself of a headache. "What'd you do to piss Ron off?"

"Used _Crucio_ on you," Malfoy told her, though he instantly regretted it. By accident, he'd brought up a conversation he'd rather wished never to have.

Even Hermione froze. She looked at Draco's nose again, and then let her gaze fall down to her scuffed up knees and the broken skin that was visible beneath the fabric of her ripped clothing. When she looked back up, her expression was obnoxiously unreadable. "Oh." Yet, when a rather long moment passed without either of the two saying a thing, Hermione took it upon herself to step in and break the silence. "Why'd you mention that?" she asked him meekly.

Malfoy considered her complexion, dabbing carefully at the end of his nose with the back of his sleeve. Why had he told them about torturing Hermione? Well, it wasn't as if he really had a chose, was it? Familiar resentment rising up in his chest, Malfoy told her bitterly, "because they asked."

Hermione's face took on an instant look of surprise. She blinked, taken aback, and watched him carefully, trying to figure him out with haste. However, as soon as the curious expression had come, it went. Morphing quickly, Hermione's new features wound up twisted into some sort of suspicious glare. He was surprised to hear the dry laugh sound out from Hermione's direction. She lifted up a single eyebrow. "So?" she asked, her facial expression saying: _since when did that ever stop you?_

"Veritaserum," Malfoy clarified, softening her hardened front.

Blinking, Hermione's posture faltered slightly. "I don't understand," she stated, gently.

"What's there to understand, Granger?" Malfoy asked, redirecting his attention to his nose before glaring back at her again. "Is it really so hard to grasp the possibility that Potter and Weasley don't play so nicely?" Draco was profoundly proud at how bitter his tone had sounded. It almost cut through the stale air visibly.

Hermione shook her head. "... T-They shouldn't be doing that," she said, dropping her head to monitor the ground. When Malfoy only huffed, Hermione started again, bringing her lovely brown eyes back up to his again. "I'll tell them not to do that." Malfoy froze for a fraction of a second while he dabbed his face. His decision to act hostilely towards her had backfired; she'd only watched him then with distinct apology. Nonetheless, Malfoy averted his eyes and said nothing, tending only to his nose thereafter to keep himself preoccupied. "They gave you the antiserum, then, right?" she asked afterwards, hopeful. When Malfoy only shot her a stubborn glance, Hermione looked down, slumping just a bit. "Right," she said, as if it had been obvious.

"You can cover it with makeup," she told him, once again looking back up. Malfoy's face showed off his blatant disagreement. Nonetheless, a bit more nervously, Hermione added, "the bruises, I mean, if that's what you're worried about... so Crabbe won't notice."

Malfoy did a double take. He looked Hermione up and down hesitantly, wondering exactly how she'd figured Crabbe to be the majority of his worries. Sure, he'd told her about Crabbe's desire for him to 'prove' his loyalties to the Death Eaters, but her certainly had not described to her in any sort of detail. He wondered what she was playing at, though the look in her eyes told him that she wasn't guessing; she knew. Still, he decided to press her, snapping back with another bout of harshness, _"Crabbe?"_

Hermione nodded, swallowing slightly. She looked cautious, but started off slow. "Well, the Death Eaters are gone," she said, as if informing him of the fact herself. "Now... he's the one you're worried about, isn't he?" She made a face, a curious one, and watched Draco's expression change.

"How would you know about the Death Eaters being gone?" he asked, voice strict and commanding. He tried to suppress the thought that instantly popped into his head about how she couldn't even look bad, even covered in all that grime.

Sheepish, Hermione backtracked slightly. "I can hear you talk upstairs," she told him.

"That's none of your business!" shot Malfoy, hands away from his face so that he could support himself on the floor. He hated the way that her eyes sparked brightly in the darkness because- and he swore to _God_- he was _not_ focusing on them.

Though Hermione had been timid before, Malfoy's outburst had slightly washed away her submission. Contorting, Hermione's brows furrowed together and her face reddened. A strand of hair fell uselessly in her flashing eyes and Malfoy was eternally grateful. "It's not like I can bloody well help it- the three of you yell constantly!"

Embarrassed, Malfoy's face shaded vibrantly to match hers. "Oh, do we?" he snapped, "and what else have you overheard?"

"Nothing except for the fact that Crabbe's a raging bloody _lunatic_!" Hermione counteracted, her voice low enough to qualify as a whisper, though loud enough to bust Draco's eardrums. She hadn't meant it as an insult. Rather, the look on her face signified that she had perhaps hoped her statement would satisfy him- she had agreed with him, after all, hadn't she?

"HEY!" Draco yelled, though he was not exactly sure why. It wasn't as if he and Crabbe were close by any means anymore. Nonetheless, he couldn't help but feel offended and, raising to his feet, Malfoy started in a staggering stumble towards the girl, bee-lining in her direction despite keeping his wand tucked harmlessly in the pocket of his trousers. "Crabbe's not-"

"- Not _what_, Malfoy?" Hermione argued back, not even flinching. "You can't _possibly_ be suggesting that he hasn't lost his fucking _mind,_ Malfoy!"

"He's living _here, _Granger!" Draco spat, staring daggers back down at her, "even the world's precious Potter would go mad with the Death Eaters breathing down his back!"

The lack of reaction in Hermione Granger sent waves through Malfoy's body. He was absolutely livid. However, the girl only said back up to him flatly, "you haven't," as if it were just that simple.

Malfoy almost lost his footing. His heart was pounding and his veins were thundering. Battery acid ran his heart and he could only hear the distinct pump of vibrancy as it raced through his very being. Hermione, on the other hand, remained as calm and collected as ever. Her big brown eyes watched him and, faltering, Malfoy collected himself quick enough to spit, _"what?"_

"You haven't," Hermione told him again, and this time he was certain of it. "You haven't, Malfoy."

Draco's breaths were unsteady. His gray eyes flashed. "And how," he said, dripping venomously, "would you know that?" His shoulders were raised and his blond hair stuck to the sides of his unwashed face. "In case you've forgotten, _Granger, _not too long ago I cursed the living _hell _out of you."

"You didn't want to," Hermione shrugged; she was _telling_ him, not suggesting it.

Draco laughed. Lying, he said back, "yes I did, Granger, I did! The curse _worked_."

Barely shaking her head, Hermione frowned just a little. "That's not what I meant," she told him.

"Oh?" Draco barked, "well, please, do tell."

"I just mean that you had to." Hermione glanced up through the bars that blocked the exit and then her eyes found the door that led out of the Cellar. "Crabbe was watching."

Malfoy's breaths were short and broken. "That had absolutely nothing to do with it!" he demanded, though everything that he had already told the girl over the course of their previous conversations had counteracted his statement completely. He hoped she wouldn't notice, but he was rather unlucky; Hermione raised her shoulders up into a simple shrug.

"You have to prove it," she said, her tone nothing more than a mere whisper. "So you did."

Everything about Draco's demeanor crumbled. He stared down at Hermione, breathing sharply, and then turned sharply on his heel, ignoring the piercing pain in his ankle that cried out for him to slow down. Still, he delivered a swift kick into the wall nearby Hermione's head and, once the pain doubled, shrunk down to the floor in front of her with his head in his hands and his fingers in his shaggy locks of lifeless blond hair. Then, for he had shouted it multiple times already, Draco finally said to no one but himself, "fuck!"

Hermione didn't move a muscle. She didn't say a word. Rather, she watched Malfoy carefully, his shoulders rising and falling with each pant, his blood-stained clothing soaked with eye-catching red. His breaths echoed across the whole room, reminded her that, despite the dead Muggle girls in the corner, she was not the only one alive in the house. Though reluctant and difficult, he, Malfoy, was right there with her.

Clearing her throat, Hermione only continued to stare. He looked so broken up, then, there vulnerable and harmless in front of her very person. He hadn't even reached out for his wand, hadn't even bothered to make a threat, and she wondered why he hadn't even brought it out as a scare tactic before considering the notion that it hadn't even crossed his mind to do so. His words were only words now; they lacked any substance at all. Then, because she felt the sudden urge to, she drew her hand forward and he didn't notice. She let her palm hover carefully over Malfoy's hunched forward shoulder and then, after a short while of swift consideration, brought it down towards him.

Malfoy flinched at the touch, but didn't push her away. "If it makes you feel any better," Hermione told him, pushing her hair back behind her ear, "I'm glad you did it." Draco scoffed. His body shook some more. Hermione's hand remained tentative, "you saved the both of us."

A sob wracked through Draco Malfoy's body before he could even stop it. He felt an immense amount of self-loathing, but the tears were already beginning to swell up in his eyes; they stung worse than he could have ever imagined. And then it really _was_ Hogwarts with Moaning Myrtle all over again. Just like the time in the bathroom, he hadn't been exactly sure how it had started, but it did and he wanted to curl up tightly in a ball and never look at Hermione Granger ever again. When he felt Hermione freeze before allowing herself to rub his hand in circles at his back, he was certain he'd never been more humiliated in his entire life.

_"Shhh,_" she instructed him, uneasy and unexpected, "_Shh, _Malfoy, it's alright... I'm fine, I promise."

Draco whisked his shoulder out from under her grasp, glaring at her, despite the wetness in his gray eyes. "I thought I'd bloody _killed_ you!" he accused, as if, had he done so, it would have been her own fault completely.

Hermione drew herself back, her hand held upwards by her face, deflated. "No! Malfoy, I'm okay," she insisted, whispering as much as her urgency would allow her, "you didn't-"

A long and stubborn groan sounded out from Malfoy's throat. "What's happening to me?" he asked no one really but himself.

Hermione, however, took the initiative. "It's not a bad thing, Malfoy," she said carefully, but boldly, "whatever it is, it's not a bad thing."

He fiercely swiped away the tears that trickled down his cheeks and turned back to glare at her. "I'm not supposed to _not want_ to hurt you!"

"Maybe," Hermione said, offering him the very same view of her pretty eyes that he both loved and despised at the same time, "you're not _supposed_ to hurt me."

Malfoy froze at that and then, because he had nothing better to say, shook his head and averted his eyes. Covering his mouth with his clammy palm, Draco breathed out morosely. "You don't get it," he mumbled, defeated.

Hermione swallowed, blinking slightly before nodding. She considered him lightly, gently readjusting herself before voicing her agreement. "You're right, I suppose I don't," she said softly, and Malfoy didn't even bother meeting her gaze. "But, I think its good for you." She paused, waiting for a reaction that she did not get. "I think you'll grow from it."

Draco scoffed. Thought he'd 'grow' from all of this, did she? Well, Draco had an entirely different view of his situation altogether. In fact, he was almost one hundred percent positive he would not grow from any of this because he was not even certain he'd live through it. _Growth_, he thought stubbornly to himself, _what a joke_. He didn't look up, but bitterly he tossed his eyes. "That's rich."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, her eyes focused on Draco's crooked ankle, on his fucked-up shoulder, and on his damaged nose. He was a right bloody mess.

"I don't think I'll make it past _seventeen_, Granger," he told her, regaining himself from the tears a bit so that he could act slightly hostile, "unless there's some growing between now and my impending _death_ that I should know about?"

Hermione laughed once, just as he had. "Well, no," she said, smiling a bit, "but, at least, if you die, I die too." Her eyes dropped back down to him and she tried to make eye contact, if any sort at all, when she said, "at least neither of us will die alone."

This got Malfoy's attention. He looked back up, glancing up and down the girl with fast-moving eyes. He didn't say anything, but looked almost surprised that she'd even said it. However, Hermione did not appear to regret saying anything at all. Only, she watched Malfoy equally, shoulders slouched down, mouth slightly hitched upwards, with her eyes soft and careful. It took Draco a while to even realize that she was smiling gently at him. He didn't say anything at all because, what _could_ he say?

"Here," Hermione offered, inching forward with her hands outstretched. She ignored Draco who flinched the moment her hands touched his face, gently grazing over the sore spot of skin that stretched out over his injured nose. "It's broken," she told him cautiously. Malfoy didn't say a word. He watched her with a twisted expression, curious though unmoving. Hermione took his submissiveness to her advantage. She eyed the stick-like shadow of his wand as it struck out of his pocket.

Malfoy saw her brown eyes look back at him, though he wasn't quite sure where she had been looking beforehand. He drew in slow breaths, finding himself more and more curious as to what exactly she was doing, what her next move would be. Nonetheless, she looked at him gently, a trusting expression falling over her features. For only a moment she hesitated and then, she slipped her hands from Draco Malfoy's fractured face. Swallowing, she moved her hands- ever so slowly- towards his wand.

Draco stiffened. His hands flew to his weapon just as her fingers found the end of it. Wild, he glanced up at her, but Hermione's face was timid and careful. "I can fix it," she told him, keeping her hands trapped underneath his. Gray eyes searched her face. "I'm not going to try to escape, Malfoy," she told him with a soft breath. It would have been stupid for her to try anyway, and Hermione knew; with the Death Eaters watching with their sticky eyes outside the door, she'd have been apprehended instantly. "I can fix it, if you'll let me..."

When Draco didn't move, Hermione lifted his lifeless hands from hers, plucking his fingers away carefully as she watched his face. She moved until she found herself grasping his wand, lifting it out of his trouser pocket and holding it in her hands in front of her chest. She gazed down at it and then brought it upwards, directing it between Malfoy's magnificent gray eyes. And then she stalled, her shoulders rising slowly, her breath cut short with anticipation.

She could have killed him and she knew it, but Malfoy knew it, too, and Hermione saw the acceptance behind his expression. His face swam with fear and yet, he did not bolt. Everything about him seemed all too accepting of the possibility that he was about to die, right there on the dusty, dirty floor of his own house's Cellar. His expression showed that he expected it. He was waiting.

"_Episkey."_

Malfoy's nose gave a distinct little crack and, bones shifting, popped back into place. He looked as if he couldn't believe it, eyes crossed and slanted down the bridge of his nose, mouth parted slightly as if he had really thought she'd do him in. However, Hermione's posture only further sloped. She dropped her shoulders and studied his eyes, not his nose, before pulling her hands away and smoothly slipping Draco's wand back into his lap.

Statuesque, Draco stared back at her intently. However, Hermione managed a little sigh after a while, breathing out slowly but only to lay back. She put her arms behind her head, bent at the elbows, and Draco only watched. Her eyes scanned the top of the stone ceiling. She looked as if she were simply star gazing and Malfoy hadn't even moved a muscle. "How's it feel?" Hermione asked casually, not quite looking at him, but instead at the hypothetical sky above her.

Malfoy blinked. He really couldn't believe it. "What the bloody hell was that?" he whispered, his voice barely there.

Hermione didn't look surprised. She seemed to figure he'd opt upon asking her. "What do you mean?" she asked lightly, not even bothering to remove her gaze from the space above her.

"You..." Malfoy breathed, eyes wet, "you were supposed to kill me..."

"I was supposed to fix your broke nose," Hermione informed him. Draco looked absolutely dumbfounded. Red in the face, Hermione tried to pay no attention to the light as it caught the watery tears leaking down his cheeks. "How'd I do?"

Malfoy blinked. He looked so much like a small child. Voice small, he told her as his tone broke, "you fixed it."

"Hmm," Hermione mused, nothing more than a soft hum, "thought so." A slight, satisfied smile tugged at her lips.

Draco, however, did not look well in the slightest. Tears dripped down his face and he looked lost, uneasy. He couldn't find his voice for several seconds, shaking as he sat dumbfounded on the ground before Hermione Granger. He hadn't even bothered to wipe the left over blood from the front of his face. "Why?" Draco asked, so raspy that he could barely even hear it. "Why didn't you just kill me?"

Brows furrowed, Hermione's forehead wrinkled. She turned towards Draco and her eyes were honest and sincere. "I don't want to kill you."

A sob broke through Malfoy again and this time, he bit down hard on his bottom lip. "You should have just killed me," he murmured, placing his wand back into his pocket slowly.

This time, Hermione's expression churned. She looked distressed and watched him intently. "We're doing this together, Draco," she told him, and she looked up and waited, eyes brown and serious, dark hair frizzy yet lovely in the way that it was pooled out in a halo underneath her. Her knees were up in the air, bent and lean, and something about her gave way; she looked almost angelic, despite the soot. "Ok?"

Draco swiped his sleeve across his face. He stared down at the stone floor and then ran his hands back over his face. Defeated, he nodded, eyes covered. He remained sitting for several moment before he collected himself, staggering uneasily to his feet, breathing out. Thus, he clamored towards the steps, hands palming up against the stone wall, and blinked carefully into the dark. A slight shift sounded out around him and, from the bottom of the stairs, Hermione asked, "where are you going?"

"I'm going to bed," Malfoy told her wearily. Then he disappeared beyond the barrier.

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_Draco wasn't sure how, but he was tumbling again down the steps of his house and the night was dark, and big, and consuming. He tumbled down the steps and his leg didn't even hurt and his heart only pounded hard and heavy in his chest. He felt amazing- fuzzy, buzzed, and ecstatic. And it was strange because, despite the swimming intensity that swam about his body, he still strode towards the hallway that led to the Cellar door and the rickety old room below. _

_And then he was reaching for it, careless about the impact of the sudden noise, not even bothering to lock it behind him. He could not see, but he sensed the scuff of the girl below, following the soft noises of her readjusting body below. When the light adjusted, he saw her as if in a spotlight, and this time she was clean. Her brown hair tumbled around her shoulders and curled up just at the very tips. Even at his distance, he could see the way that her clothes had seemed to repair themselves. Nothing was bloody or dirt-covered. Only, the harsh tear of fabric rest obvious and open at the top of her heaving chest. _

_He heard her, too, and she spun around as if she could not quite see him. Squinting, her brown eyes flashed and Draco's stomach did flips. His foot grazed the last step, and he didn't even care that she looked beautiful to him anymore. It didn't even matter that he'd once worried about his blood and her blood; everything was okay just for that split second and Draco Malfoy stepped further into the darkness. "Malfoy?" her voice was just as high and uncertain as it had been the last time, and he relished in the havering was that tone pitched when she'd said his name out loud. "Is that you?"_

_The Slytherin didn't even take the time to answer. Instead, he lifted his arms to her face and it didn't even hurt. Fingers laced in her hair, he pressed his lips forcefully up against hers and ignored the muffled gasp of surprise that she breathed into his mouth. However, his feet moved forward and her back met the stone wall behind her, the whisk of her lashes brushing up against his cheeks as he pressed his body up against hers. _

_Then her hands were cupping his chest to and her lips were working back against his passionately. She smoothed back the blond strands of hair that hung low in his face and let him lift her up off the ground so that she was standing on the tips of her very toes. And then she wasn't even standing anymore; her legs hitched up and she wrapped them around Malfoy's wiry waist mechanically as he brought them backwards, sinking to the ground by the Muggle bodies that lie nice and clean in the corner. They didn't even smell and neither of the two noticed them at all. Rather, they curled down away from them casually, Hermione sitting on her knees as Draco followed her to the ground shortly behind. _

_His hands grabbed the back of her head and he guided her to the ground quickly, her head against the ground and she didn't even wince at the jaggedness of it all. Instead, she only watched him curiously, eyes scanning his face, fingers trailing his chin, until he was back on top of her again, his chest pressed up against her own responsively. He felt his hands run to her jacket and pull the zipper down and he wasn't even certain that he was the one doing any of it. Yet, heated, the thing came off anyway, discarded quickly by the bodies that were just so silent and unnoticeable that they may of well have just been sleeping._

_Hermione's chest rose and fell up against his hunched over one. He could see the glisten of her bra through the sheer of the fabric stretched over her upper torso. And next came the shirt underneath. Malfoy's fingers grazed the hem lightly before pulling it over her head, staring down into the pale surface of her flattened stomach. Malfoy froze. Something wasn't right; deep and fierce slashes sat crisscrossed on the entire front of her fit flesh. They were open and gaping, pooling over with blood that seemed to have just broken free from the gashes on her skin. Horrified, he drew back, sputtering against the stone and scrambling away from her like a backwards crab. A broken gasp escaped his throat and Hermione didn't even flinch. "What?" she asked him, picking herself back up slowly. Blood fumbled down onto her trousers, coated her pale skin with red. "Malfoy, what is it?"_

_A trail of blood dribbled from her lips and Hermione's expression watched him. And then blood was drooling out from every pore on her body, oozing from her forehead and clinging to her collarbones. She pulled herself slowly back up to her knees, eyes narrowed on Malfoy sadly, as if hurt that he had stopped. But Malfoy was seeing her in a whole new light and, though he had thought so before, Hermione Jean Granger was not okay. Her fingernails were cracked and her lovely brown eyes were black and blue. Her voice broke carelessly, her hair no longer lovely, but lifeless as if on the verge of falling out. _

_"Draco?"_

_Her eyes were moving quickly, tears that were red running readily down her cheeks. Malfoy's eyes found the pair of Muggle bodies in the corner of the room. They didn't look so clean anymore; Hermione, kneeling on the stone floor rockily, seemed as if she was not too far behind with joining them in death. "What is it?" she asked him, innocent and unknowing. She didn't seem to notice the blood in her mouth as it splattered against the ground underneath her. "Draco, why'd you stop?"_

_She extended her hand and then off came her finger. Draco cried out and sputtered back, but Hermione didn't flinch. Rather, she dipped down and crawled back towards him, her expression innocent while, in the light, she rotted and decayed and broke... "Draco..."_

"NO!" Draco popped up in bed, sheets tangled around his torso, to peer into the darkened view of his bedroom. He breathed wildly into the night, eyes scanning the blackness to find the figures of Crabbe and Goyle, unknowingly hunched within the confines of their own sleep. They breathed into the air heavily and Malfoy relaxed at the notion that neither of the two had heard him cry out. Nonetheless, Draco remained pitched upwards, heart beating and breathless, without the strength to settle his buzzing body back down.

He pressed a clammy hand to his mouth and pressed his eyes shut, the sickened feeling in his stomach growing with every sharp inhale. It had been just a dream, and for that he'd been thankful, however, the eerie feeling of nausea swept over him inevitably and, curling forward, Malfoy hugged his stomach before breathing steadily again. He thought about the circumstances of his dream, noting that the fast pace of his heat had not been only caused by the decaying Granger girl crawling towards him. No, that wasn't it at all- he'd dreamt he'd kissed her, dreamt he'd torn off her shirt and ran his hands through her head of frizzy, unruly hair. And he'd liked it.

Malfoy groaned, flopping back upon the fluffy pillow with his arms over his face. He ignored the tightness in his groin and turned over on his side, hugging his waist. He pressed his eyes shut and willed himself to go back to sleep- dreamlessly. He wished for a dream without the plagues of dead Muggles, Cellars, and Hermione Jean Granger. He, however, was only granted a fraction of his wish. When he shut his eyes he did not dream of anything, and yet, he did not fall asleep at all.

The next morning, when he saw the sun rise and the night brighten, Draco Malfoy hadn't slept an ounce.

He cursed him miserably and stared with a grimace through the glass of the windows bedroom. When the first trickle of rain descended from the blackened sky above him, he couldn't help but think that the weather, despite the cold, suited his life perfectly.

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**Vonne: **Please review and let me know what you think! Thank you very much!


	16. My Body's a Zombie for You

**Vonne: **Wow! So much interest in the last chapter- I'm amazing and loving it! Thank you all so much! I hope you are enjoying this as much as I am writing it. From now on, however, I have to make it known that this is a 'M' rated fanfiction. There will be some sex in this chapter, as well as the upcoming chapters, as well as graphic violence. This is just a future warning, just to stay safe and refrain from being in trouble with those that have not noticed the rating. Anyway, thank you! I hope that your interest is still there, despite all of that.

**TragicSlytherin: **Some good advice there, but it looks like Draco's going to have to get on that fast unless he wants Crabbe to find out about all the injuries he's been keeping a secret from him. Who knows, maybe Draco will think of something or maybe he'll get the memo a bit too late... anyway, good thoughts! I hope you like this chapter, as well!

**Luckie29:** Thank you very much! I love hearing from people for the first time and I'm so glad you've been following this story from the beginning. I tried to make this chapter a bit on the longer side. I hope you like it, definitely let me know what you think!

**Sarah: **I'm so glad you liked that last chapter. I needed Hermione and Draco to have their moment and I think that Draco letting loose in front of her really helped progress their relationship. I will definitely check out your recommendation. Thank you!

**Isabella120: **Thank you! I'm so glad that you liked it! I hope that you like this chapter just as much! It's a bit on the longer side, as well!

**Blackandred17: **Hello and thank you so much! I'm so glad you liked it. I found that I really enjoy writing Hermione/Draco moments, especially when Draco slightly refuses to accept that he's got feelings for her. I hope you like this chapter as well- I tried to update it as soon as possible!

**Forbiddenluv: **Poor Draco, I always find a way to torture him, I'm afraid. Thank you so much for your review! I hope you like this chapter!

**PrivateNites: **Wow! Thanks for the long review! I am so glad that you liked this story so far and I really hope you enjoy this chapter as well. Honestly, don't worry about having not reviewed before. I'm glad to hear that you enjoy this because that's all that matters to me in the long run- knowing that I'm writing this for people that are actually reading it. Unfortunately I didn't have Draco clean Hermione off in this chapter, but I definitely know where you're coming from and I will try to get Hermione cleaned up a bit for you. She's got to absolutely reek that one, huh? ;)

**CoreyFitzwilliam: **Ah, Draco and his pride, huh? He'll come to realize it soon enough, I hope. Slowly but surely. Draco's never been much of a strong one in that aspect has he? Always denying his feelings, that one...

I am so sorry to all of you that reviewed after I submit this chapter. It seems to happen more often than not that someone reviews once a new chapter has been submitted and it appears as if they were forgotten in my responses. I promise that that is not the case and that I still read your reviews every time. In advanced, thank you for all your comments. I appreciate them so very much, of course. Thank you!

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_"The smell of my breath from the blood on your neck. Oh, I hold my soul from the lands unknown so I can play the strings of your death. My body's a zombie for you."_

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**Chapter Sixteen**  
**My Body's a Zombie for You**

Draco Malfoy held the bottle of his father's liquor with a clenched palm, his legs bent only to meet at the knees. Though he hadn't been exactly certain on how long he'd been seated at the edge of the living room couch in such a way, he guessed it had been quite a while, for the numbness in his hand was slowly starting to creep up on him and the sway in his head signified that, _yes_, finally, he was inebriated. Malfoy suppressed a sigh, lifting the bottle up and considering it under the twinkling light of the orange glowing chandelier up ahead of him. He'd downed a rather impressive amount of it, too; only the last of its contents seemed to wink mischievously at him, daring him to wash them down as well. But Malfoy took his time.

Instead, he ran his trembling hands through his hair and tried not to focus on the Cellar door that sat several feet away from him. He knew all too well what rest behind it; Hermione Jean Granger, bloody and bruised and beautiful. This time Draco groaned, lifting the bottle and clinking it to the top row of his teeth in the process. His head buzzed as the pain rose upwards into his skull, but he poured the remaining alcohol down his throat and brushed away the dribbling bits with a quick slash of his shirt sleeve thinking, _"there. That takes care of that"._

It didn't, of course. Though Malfoy was swaying and sick, no amount of liquor could stand to remove the view of the Cellar from his eyesight. It did not make Hermione go away and it certainly did not rid him of the woes that he considered when he... well, considered her. He hated and pitied himself for it, reeling at the notion that he, Draco Malfoy, could feel anything but spite for the putrid little Mudblood that sat dying and dirty on the floor of his own home's inmate Cellar. He blubbered, willing himself to say something out loud, but only managing to grumble and groan with the effort. Thus, hazily, he flopped back against the couch, dulled in the blackness of the early morning, and whisked the nearest pillow over his head.

A surge of the previous night's dreams caught up to him, whirling before his mind's eye in an almost desirable way. He hated the way that his groin tightened when he thought about it, about Hermione, cleaned and untouched, her hands running through his hair and grazing the bruised spaces at his cheeks with such caressing carefulness. He felt the crotch of his pants grow tighter, a flush of embarrassment overtaking his face as he tried in vain to will the vision of a breathtaking Hermione from his head. Thus, in his drunkenness, he tried to think of all things horrible and putrid and unappealing.

He thought of Gregory Goyle in his underwear, of Rubeus Hagrid snogging his precious Buckbeak, of Lord Voldemort uncloaked and decaying- but it all lead back to Granger. When one moment he pictured the horrifying image of Fenrir Greyback and his hairy flesh, the next he found himself considering Hermione's own hair and the lovely way it fell across her broad shoulders. He thought of the way it curled at the ends and sat, readily, against the nape of her neck, covering the lines of torture that sat there. His stomach dropped, and _fuck_, he wasn't supposed to be thinking about her at all, so instead he thought of Millicent Bulstrode in her knickers. He thought, "_Poor Milly," _as he reluctantly envisioned her spread-eagle and positioned on the surface of a pile of silky sheets, rolls of fat wobbling over her waistline in a cotton green bra. And then he thought that, perhaps, blue would suit her better before the image of his fellow Slytherin classmate morphed and transformed into Hermione, blue bra and all, breath steady so that her breasts rose and fell with every slow and steady inhale.

When his hand slipped down to his trousers he didn't even notice it. Instead, the buzz of his liquor seemed to numb him, glide his fingers to the waistband of his trousers and, before he could even realize it, allow him to fiddle with the button. He was almost too consumed with the picture to notice it, anyways. Nonetheless, he took to unknowingly imagining Hermione lean back, hands behind her head as she'd done down in the Cellar, eyes brown and innocent and longing. He popped open the button and smoothed his palm against the bottom of his sweaty stomach, feeling himself shake with need as his fingers danced over the profoundly hardest part of himself.

His knees buckled and he felt weak, thankful that he was lying down and, still dizzy, he stroked at the skin smelling his own alcohol-laced breath as it splashed up against the pillow at his face and seeped back down into his nostrils. He chewed nervously on his lower lip, intensifying the petting, clamping down hard with his teeth when he felt himself whimper. Against the cushions his back arched upwards away from the couch, feet bare and writing despite the heat that his body instantly overtook. He envisioned the dream and the way he wished it would have played out; watched the imagined vision of himself crawl next to her and force himself against her, digging his nails into her soft skin, leaning her up against the wall and burying his head in the hot space between her shoulder and her neck.

Another moan escaped his throat, though he muffled it with his freehand, pressing the pillow into his face. He felt himself rising with his hips, trying hard to think of disgusting things but now... now it was far too late because every dammed thing seemed to link back to Hermione and her curls and her eyes and her skin and her innocence and her hands against his face and, _"were in this together, Draco." _His daydream led him to reach behind Granger and unhook the straps to the sky blue bra, revealing her chest and dropping down past the curve of her slender waist and her hips. She was thin, but curvy and Draco Malfoy had almost never before known what curvy meant before he'd seen her there- the picture of perfection that she'd once hidden behind a facade of baggy and uninteresting clothing. He ran his fingers down the length of himself, appreciating modesty and wondering how, exactly, he would have reacted to her in school has she shown herself off a bit more. He was gracious that she hadn't, deciding that he would have been weakened and pathetic with every insult he had even chosen to shot at her back then.

Yet, despite the wave of pleasure, Draco found himself wishing that he'd never ever insulted her at all because he'd seen her blood and it wasn't filthy, and she was beautiful, and wonderful, and smart. Nonetheless, he was writhing and lifting as the bottle slipped from his hands and landed with a shatter on the rug below him breaking- but Malfoy didn't seem to notice. Instead, he used his newly freed hand to grab desperately at the edge of the couch, willing himself to stay on top of it. And in the corner of his mind's eye, Hermione was holding him back, unaware of the hideous scars that lined his back and his stomach and his shoulders. Lovingly, he imagined her as she pressed her soft lips against his neck and smoothed her pink tongue over his flesh making him shudder. Her fingernails dragged gently across his back and then, surging, she allowed him to lift her onto his lap, wrapping her strong legs around his waist and running her hands to his skull through the tangles of his hair and back again.

Weak with desire, Draco saw himself push her back, helping her lie against the sheets as he lowered his body between her legs and smoothed his chest up against her bare one. He pushed his lips against hers and held on to her lower one, eyes pressed shut as sweat poured down his face. His resistance made him anything but gentle, but this version of Hermione loved it, was fueled by it, and allowed Draco to do what he'd needed as every inch of his body propelled him towards her with full and unrecognizable force. He trailed his mouth to her neck and sucked until she moaned and her flesh came up purple with a bruise that was pleasant and loving, starting back at the space beneath her ear as he pictured her hands reaching for his trousers, rubbing him rhythmically as he moaned into her mouth.

Against the cushions of the couch that he was currently writhing upon, Draco flung his head back, enveloped by the darkness of the pillow and the lids which concealed the wetness of his gray eyes. He followed down the length of himself, wrapped up in _Hermione, Hermione, Hermione, _in a way that he had never thought about another girl in his life before. And for a split second he thought himself pathetic, so lustful after the first girl that had paid him any attention at all since his isolation from the school and the rest of the Wizarding World. However, that wasn't how it was at all and he knew it. Hermione had been much more than that, yet he wasn't really sure how, exactly, to place her. Still, he found her bravery and her hope unexplainable, the way she'd looked up at him through the set of deep brown eyes almost impossible. It was not just that she was beautiful, but that she was smart and caring and she believed in him more than he even believed in himself. She'd fixed his nose, she hadn't killed him, and she hadn't tried to run away. It tore at him and he cursed himself, but all the while, he couldn't escape it. Hermione just wouldn't leave him, couldn't leave him. In his bitterness and desire and confusion, Draco Malfoy suppressed yet another moan that tumbled from his lips and splashed into the pillow that he held tightly against his dripping face.

He saw himself fumble down to her stomach, so fiercely and heated that it almost horrified him. The vision led him to her hips and he dove beneath her pants while remaining locked into the eyes that she squeezed shut, clawing against him so that she could yank him back down to her face, her lips fast against his eagerly. She arched up against him as he arched up against the couch, toes curled, fingers deep within the fabric. This time he was not lucky with his moan, hearing it sound out against the fluff of the pillow and pour into his ears like a desperate and intoxicated sob. His head felt dizzy and whirling and heavy around him, the room so hot- too hot- that even the thin cloth of his shirt was beginning to feel like too much for him. And Hermione was telling him, "we're in this together", and Malfoy was nodding up against her because he had to, because he _needed_ to... because he needed her.

He was loosing himself in the battle of not trying to think of her, loosing himself in the liquor that only fueled him forward and made him tremble. "We're in this together," he could almost hear her whispering, in his ear and at his neck, smoothing out the skin at his cheeks and wrapping her fingers down into his blond hair. Vainly, he tried with one last effort to block her out, hating that he had lusted so obviously after her, loathing himself with every core in his being for it. Yet he could not help himself and he had never once felt like this before. Angry, he bit down on his lower lip, pressing his eyes shut, and yet the image of himself and Hermione did not fade. He dug his fingernails into the couch and Hermione's lips ticked up against his mouth. She was panting and breathing and he was so hot and sweaty and doing the same. And, _oh God,_ so looked so gorgeous and caring and loving and glowing as she pushed her his against his groin and caressed her tongue into his. "In this together, right, Draco?"

_"Yes."_

As he felt himself spill out into his trousers, one last spasm rushed over his body. Hot liquid poured down him and he cried out one last time, muffled by the tight grip he'd held on to his lip by his merciless teeth. Eventually, however, his body took over and he released his mouth, desiring breath as if he'd held himself under the surface of a vast, swaying ocean. He gasped, heart pounding, head racing, as his hips fell back down onto the couch and his toes curled. Hoarse and dry, he heard himself rasp into the open room, his echoed pants mimicking him through the hollow walls of the room and his ears, relentlessly taunting.

The pillow fumbled off his face and collided with the broken liquor bottle at the floor. And, drenched in sweat and his own bodily fluids, Draco stared up at the ceiling frozen as if he couldn't quite believe it or himself or anything at all for that matter. Nothing seemed to steady itself, twisting only disastrously as if dreaming or drugged. Though still, he watched the hanging chandelier dangle up above him, orange lights blurred through his unclear vision of the living room and the space around him entirely. He breathed panting, chest heaving up and down, eyes stinging and searching, blond hair plastered against his face and across his forehead and in his eyes.

He shook violently, still unable to move as the aching sensation of his worked ankle shot back through him unpleasantly. His shoulder clenched next, responsively, and Malfoy did nothing to stop it. Instead, he remained too caught up within the confines of his faded imagination, horrified at himself with his one hand still down his pants and the soft breaths of Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe upstairs. Humiliated at himself, Malfoy's eyes searched in vain for the Death Eaters' eyes that lined the house, face reddening and frozen and shaking. He shuddered at the thought of them watching, grinning at his childishness and joking back and forth with one another. Shivering, he pressed his eyes shut and reopened them, still uneasy and ill.

And now the living room seemed only cold and chilly, dark and dim despite the orange and the sunlight that leaked through the thickly drawn curtains. He shifted uncomfortably, wincing at the wetness at his crotch and his legs that felt like jelly, useless out below him. He glanced down at the spilled liquor bottle, thankful that the contents were empty, and caught sight of the broken bottle that rest in pieces on the ground floor below him. He had barely even noticed that he'd dropped it; so caught up within his fantasy was he that the thing seemed to glide out of his hand carelessly in the process. Nonetheless, his groin ached with his accomplished pleasure, despite the all the utter self-loathing that it caused to dwell feverishly inside his chest.

He wanted to curl himself up into a ball to be devoured by the couch, but even the simple action of lifting his shaky legs proved to be too much for him. He couldn't do it, couldn't move even slightly. Thus, he sat throbbing, heart racing from the pleasure and the fear, his breaths ragged and worn as the numb prickle of pins and needles poked relentlessly at his skin. He heard every rush of wind around him as it ran through his ears, veins pumping methodically as he thought of Hermione, willing her to fade away from his mind as he blinked back around into the blackness, trying in vain to regain his faltering vision. Every single thing around him looked like a blur, a distorted view of reality that twisted and churned in his throbbing presence, winded and heated and absolutely and completely worn out. Yet any move his body made sent tingles of pain up his spine and every breath made him dizzy with the tide of hard liquor. He remained as statue, blinking and utterly embarrassed, completely snapped out of the lustful trace that he had only recently found himself immersed in.

"Draco?"

Malfoy ignored the pain as he shot up, swooping down to retrieve the discarded pillow on the floor and slam it over the opened waistband of his crotch. He tried to cry out, but his voice sounded like nothing more than mumbles, pathetic and sloppy as he move his mouth in attempt to utter anything, anything at all. "Draco, is that _you_ down there?"

Draco's body screamed swears. His buckles knees gave him and he whisked himself upwards, panting and breathing so harshly that he could barely contain himself. He heard the footsteps clammor down the stairs and he smoothed his greasy hair back desperately, face red and distressed, throat tight with having previously moaned so pleasantly. "Draco?"

Malfoy's eyes snatched up to find the shaded outline of Vincent Crabbe, clad in his dress clothes as if he'd dressed for the occasion of meeting some sort of visitor downstairs. A look of confusion wrinkled his face and Malfoy was certain he'd been expecting someone else- one of the Death Eaters. Crabbe let down his guard, lowering the point of his glowing wand to let it dangle above the ground. He stood on the very last step, eyes narrowed darkly. "Draco, what are you doing down here?"

Malfoy's face burned and his eyes watered. Crabbe's voice was nothing but an absolute blur. "I..." he tried chockingly, "I-I w-was..."

Crabbe lifted his foot off the step and drifted closer towards Draco in the living room. He glanced down at the shattered glass and raised his eyebrows, glancing the shaking blond up and down with one swift motion. However, just when he looked as if he were going to bend forward any further, Crabbe's nose scrunched up in disgust and he leaned back, squeezing his nose shut with a pinch of his saussage fingers. "Fucking hell, Draco, how much have you been drinking?"

"Uhh?" Malfoy's eyes searched the floor, finding and locating the broken bottle. He looked up from it and back into Crabbe's gaze. "I, uhh?"

He watched Crabbe glance around the living room, wand lowered and eyes wide. He wore a rather unamused expression and regarded Draco carefully, completely revolted. "Can you stand up?" he asked, contorting his features. Malfoy glanced down at his bare feet and the pair of discarded shoes that had been left behind in the corner. He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat, wincing, and then shook his head. "Fucking hell," Crabbe repeated.

He made a sudden surge towards Draco's arm and whisked him up from the couch, sending Malfoy's hand flying to the top of his tousers and tugging them as he struggled to keep them up. He was unlucky, of course, when Crabbe glanced down to notice the state of his clothing. However, if he'd noticed anything else, he did not let on. Instead, he sighed heavily and dove his hands down, zipping up Draco's trousers forcefully and snapped the button closed. Malfoy only watched him, eyes drowsy as he hiccuped and tried to retain the bile in his throat. Crabbe paused to look up at Draco with a sneer and then reached back for his arm. "You smell like liquor from a mile away," he scoffed, ignoring the flush to Draco's usually pale visage. "Pathetic."

Draco didn't even try to think up a retort, but instead permitted Crabbe to drag him. In his haze, however, he seemed to forget to try not to limp. Delirious, he dragged his injured foot behind him and clawed back at Crabbe for support. This, however, Crabbe did not overlook. He froze, when they reached the stairs, noticing the way that Malfoy stopped, considered the steps, and tried uselessly to lift his throbbing ankle. He stopped, stared, and then noticed the draining way in which Malfoy's face lost color.

He bent down after locking eyes with Draco and peered down the length of his wiry legs. Malfoy's heart pounded as Crabbe considered his foot. He swayed down, though wobbled in the process, gripping the railing to steady himself when Crabbe glanced back up, brow raised, grimacing darkly. "Why are you limping?" Crabbe asked, his voice low and serious and demanding.

Malfoy tried to lift his leg and move it away, but he swelling pain in his ankle kept him rooted. "I'm n-not-" he tried, but Crabbe broke their gaze, eyes peeking down at Malfoy's ankle with stern curiosity. His eyes darted down and then, shoving his wand into his pocket, lifted his meaty arms out to the hem of Draco's trousers. The blond pressed his eyes shut and Crabbe simply held the trouser leg up in his fists, eyes glaring down at the puffy, gashed ankle. The rope burn from Draco's first meeting with Ron and Harry had broken through the skin much further than the edge of the book that Crabbe had thrown at him had. "Hasn't healed," Draco mumbled, but Crabbe's breath was hot against his skin.

He felt the pang of intense pain as Crabbe traced the gash on his ankle with his fingertips. Sucking in breath, Malfoy hissed, head whirling. And Crabbe only inched his fingers down upon it further, ignoring the dark bruises. When he'd finished considering the disgusting condition of Malfoy's ankle, he snapped his head back up and glared. He forced his fingers back on the wound and Draco whimpered. "Where's this from?"

"Book," Draco slurred, but Crabbe didn't buy it. He clasped his fist back at the ankle and Malfoy lost his balance. He wobbled dazed to one side and, much to his misfortune, collided into the wall one the side of his aching shoulder. His head spun as his vision blurred, crying out before clamping his teeth down on his lip all over again. He covered his mouth to keep from whimpering, but the shakes gave him away. Crabbe stood up strictly, his posture rigged and stiff. His entire face darkened. Something about his eyes flashed. Then, he cocked his chin towards Malfoy's slumped shoulder.

"Let me see it," he commanded, and Malfoy's heart dropped. He felt faint and unsteady all at once, but he did not dare move. "Let me see it, Draco," Crabbe hissed through clenched teeth.

"Crabbe-" Malfoy tried, but Crabbe had already made up his mind. He growled, surging forward and whisked down the collar of Draco's shirt, snapping the buttons off of it in the process and ignoring them when they went flying. Harshly, he yanked down the collar of Draco's shirt and let it sag against his skin so that it revealed the flesh that covered his freshly bare shoulder. Draco ignored the rush that swam through his head as he staggered swayingly, shoulder caught up in the light so that Crabbe could see it. And the entire surface of it was bruised. The massive thing stretched around Malfoy's chest and inched across his collar bone, so purple and brown and tender.

Crabbe's eyes snapped up. He locked his glare furiously into Draco and practically growled. "Draco, what the fuck?" he asked, his own face red and vibrant as a tomato.

Malfoy felt weak. His head felt heavy and his heart pounded against his chest bone rapidly. Drunk and sloppy, Draco felt the rush of heat rise up into his face. "I-I slipped and fell," he lied, remembering the astonishingly strong punch that Hermione had struck him with.

"Slipped and _fell?" _Crabbe mimicked, noticing the desperate flash behind Draco's gaze. He lunged forward and shoved Draco- hard- against his shoulder. "Slipped," he began again through his fury, "and _fell?" _

Draco instantly fumbled back, loosing his footing on his wobbling legs, woozy and nauseated. His blurred vision found the wand that he'd placed on the coffee table, in too much of a daze to remember to pick it up when he'd headed upstairs. He was far too distant from it now and the only thing he could see was Crabbe, fuming, his shoulders raised and his wand lifted up at the top of his heavily breathing chest. "Oy! Crabbe," Malfoy hollered, his speech only half as strong as he'd wanted it to be, "it's f-fine I d-didn't-"

"How?" roared the fatter of the two, his wand steady and prominent out in front of him. Malfoy winced when he'd shoved it closer to his face and it blurred into a brown frenzy as it sat just in front of his very nose. "How did you get that, Draco?" Crabbe hissed. He bent forward and shoved his wand down further, but Malfoy clamored to his feet, scrambling backwards against the floor and colliding with the wall just in time to cry out all over again.

"I fell, I swear!" Draco defended, though he lacked the conviction to convince him. Nonetheless, he reached forward with his hand, using the wall as support and pulled his weak body to his feet.

Goyle, however, did not have it. Rather, he surged forward for a second time, crushing his fist into Draco's shoulder. "Liar!" he shouted and Malfoy fumbled backwards, tripping and almost fumbling back towards the ground in the process.

"Hey!" Draco's voice was hoarse and sharp and it pained him to yell, but he stumbled, advancing towards Crabbe and, drunkenly, throwing a punch of his own. He sent his fist flying, grazing Crabbe's ear, but missing anything else vital. However Crabbe took the swing as his cue, whisking out of the way to deliver a hard and swift kick directly into Draco's injured ankle. He panted, a smile crawling on his face as Draco gasped, tears filled his gray eyes as his torso bent instantly forward, his arms back down at his ankle, feeling fresh blood seep through the opened gash all over again. Through the minute vision that his eyes were allowed, he saw the red liquid pool down his pale bare foot and trickle on to the ground, staining it.

Nonetheless, Crabbe leaned forward again, bringing his arms forward to shove Malfoy's shoulder again and this time, Draco snapped forward. He clenched his teeth, anger rising in his stomach, and he strode towards Crabbe despite his bleeding limbs, eyes flashing with pain and bitterness. He struck it out, despite the surges that ran up his leg, reeling his hand back and propelling it back towards Crabbe. His fist missed Crabbe, who stumbled out of the way with his wand held tightly in his grip, and Draco's knuckles hit the steel railing with a hard blow.

Reeling, Draco grabbed his fist, cursing himself for adding yet another injury to his already breaking body, and spun back around, blinking in the darkness to find Crabbe, wand outstretched, back towards the long hallway that led down to the Cellar. "It was _her, _wasn't it?" Crabbe seethed, gesturing down the hallway with his wand. The tip of it glowed brightly and Crabbe's face was illuminated, flushed and furious. "It was that filthy little Mudblood _bitch,_ wasn't it?"

Draco's face reddened. He felt dizzy all over again, as if Crabbe had struck him. "What?" he hissed back, feigning ignorance. His heart pounded like thunder and he thought about Hermione as his chest dropped drastically. The need to defend her came unexpectedly and he only half realized that he'd been doing it.

"How'd she manage it, huh?" Crabbe shouted inquisitively. "How'd she manage it without a bloody _wand_, huh, Draco?" He took another step towards the Cellar door and Malfoy wanted to rip his fat fucking head square off of his shoulders.

"It wasn't her, Crabbe!" Draco lied, hands clenching into fists.

"Oh," Crabbe yelled, a sarcastic and bitter laugh escaping his dry throat, "I think it was, Draco. You don't have to bloody tell me, but I can see it in your _eyes_." He waved his wand but didn't shout a spell, instead, he spat relentlessly, ignoring the blood as it continued to leak from Draco's flesh. A woozy feeling swept over Draco and, despite his intoxication, he was beginning to think that lately he'd lost almost too much blood for his own good. "I _know_ when you're fucking _lying_ to me, Draco!" Then he whisked his hand towards the corners of the room. Though he did not directly point out one of the Death Eaters' hidden eyes, Draco knew exactly what it was that he was talking about. "And they do, too!"

Malfoy's head spun. His breath hitched and he found himself shouting. "It _wasn't_ her, Crabbe!" though he could not place a finger on why it was that he cared to defend her so much; either way, Vincent Crabbe would still descend down the steps of the Cellar and torture her, guilty or not.

However, Crabbe's contorted face remained locked upon Malfoy, anger rising and spreading, furious that Draco had been keeping something so serious from him for so long. _"Cruc-"_ Crabbe started, but Draco, despite fogged, managed to stumble away from the spell and race towards his own wand. He staggered forward towards the living room coffee table, his ankle making him panic, but his eyes were set on his weapon and he fumbled towards it with his arm outstretched. _"Impedimenta!" _

Instantly Draco's feet tangles and he fell back onto the floor with a great, big flop. He felt his chin strike the ground and blinked as fresh blood pooled out from his face, struggling to regain his composure. Yet the stinging sensation in his ankle was enough to bind him, his head reeling from the wave-like wash that pushed against his throbbing skull. He felt sick, nausea rising in his throat and he almost thought he couldn't hold it in; the image of the blurry liquor bottle twinkled spastically in front of his very eyes. Crabbe's choked laugh rattled against the walls of the living room. "Looking for something, Draco?" Crabbe asked, spit flying in every direction out of his swiftly twisting mouth.

Malfoy clenched his teeth together, his jaw throbbing from the pressure. He inched his arm forward, breathing slowly as he crawled towards the wand, his eyes set on it while Crabbe paced in hysterics around him. "I knew it," he was saying out loud, grabbing at the buzzed hair strands with his meaty fingers. "I knew it, I bloody well _knew_ it!" He sent his foot flying, kicking the wall nearest him harshly with the front of his shoe. The vase that sat upon the nearby end table wobbled and then fell to the ground, shattering. "You're hiding something, Draco! You're _hiding _something from the others!"

His fingers stretched over the air that sat over it, palm hanging just above the thing before he finally clamped down upon it. Blubbering relieved, Draco scooped his wand up from the table and puled himself upwards, his palms at the couch armrest as he staggered lifelessly to his feet. The motion caught Crabbe by surprise. He stopped in his monologue, eyes wide to find that Draco had retrieved his own weapon. His frown deepened and he scowled furiously, lifting his wand and stretching his mouth open in an angry and hostile and murderous manner. As he prepared himself to spit the curse, he whisked towards Draco on fast-moving legs.

However, Draco was too fast. He pushed his wand outwards and his mouth formed the spell, _"Flipendo!"_ Within the moment, Crabbe was hit. The powerful spell lifted him off the floor as if he'd been shoved, his body thrust into the air. He was jolted backwards and his back slapped the wall, sending him sliding down the thing to meet the floor in a miserable and uncollected crumble. It took the boy a moment to register what had just happened and, blinking, he gazed into the darkened living room, a trickle of red blood tumbling out from his lips; Malfoy guessed he'd bitten his tongue. Sneering, Crabbe hauled himself upwards, eyes aflame, dripping venom almost visibly. A deep growl escaped his throat and he stood planted on his feet, fingers clenched to the point of whiteness.

_"Deprimo!"_ Crabbe shouted and Draco felt his body go rigid. Then the pressure set in, pushing him back against the floor so forcefully that he could barely move. He felt his back grind against the floor, felt his pelvis as it was crushed by something almost invisible. And the pain sent his head back, made him cry out as he tried in desperation to keep ahold of his wand. For a moment Crabbe watched the damage of his induced spell from the back of the room but, when it seemed that he could not longer admire from afar, he strode back up to Draco, panting heavily, and peered down at the blond, face fat and bloated. But the immense pressure was almost too much for Draco to put up with and soon enough he was certain that his entire body was about to fracture. _"Finite!" _

Sputtering, Draco gasped for air, relishing as the pressure was lifted up from his body, eyes stinging as he felt the tears escape him. He watched the shadow of the larger body cover him and, attempting to hold onto his wand, Malfoy's chest gave one last shudder. _"Expelliarmus!" _The loss of his wand almost came too quickly and Draco felt the thing as it was tugged out from his grip by some unseen force. It scuttled across the floor and landed with a light tap against the ground, cast into the depths of the shaded darkness. Crabbe took only a moment to stare down at his wounded target, lifting his foot to press it down heavily on top of Draco's bruised shoulder. A strangled sob escaped from Draco's very core and he lunged forward. "_Immobulus," _Crabbe seemed to merely drawl and Draco felt himself stiffen. His hands dropped down to the floor and then he couldn't move, couldn't even flinch. He felt his head spin as he watched Crabbe, his face sparkling with sweat and then, paralyzed, saw the boy lower himself to his knees.

"What do you do when you go down there, Draco?" Crabbe asked, his brow furrowed. He looked curious, despite his anger- slowly... _slowly_ piecing things together.

Malfoy felt his head spin. He breathed through a constricted air pipe, eyes watering without the ability to blink the tears from his eyes. Even at such a close range, Crabbe looked like nothing more than a messy and unclear blur. "I'm going to find out, Draco," Crabbe mused, and he leered over the shoulder, poking the tip of his wand at the end of it. Malfoy couldn't flinch, but he could feel himself fading- the pressure was just too much. "And _they're_ going to find out, too."

Then, rigidly, he pulled himself to his feet. Swiftly he strode away from Draco, leaving him there with his eyes pinned on the ceiling. When he heard the rumbling footsteps of the boy returning, Malfoy couldn't even avert his eyes to see where he'd come from. However, the bottle in Crabbe's hands gave him away. Glistening with alcohol, Crabbe raised and waved the glass of liquor that he'd retrieved from Lucius Malfoy's cabinet. He considered if for a moment, popping off he lid and downing a hefty amount with one impressive gulp. "God," he said down at Draco, wiping his liquor-laced mouth with a swift swipe of his sleeved arm, "you're so pathetic."

Slowly then, he raised his wand and pointed it from his standpoint right between Draco's eyes. "One for the road?" he asked Draco, lifting up the bottle as if he were to offer him a glass. However, as expected, Draco's answer did not come. Thus, as if generous, Crabbe turned the bottle to the side and poured a massive amount of it onto Draco's chest, soaking him in the rancid smelling stuff and watching it soak through the fabric of his clothes and pool down onto the surface of his mother's expensive rug. When he lifted the bottle back up, steadying it properly, Crabbe glared down, impressed with his work. He raised the glass as if cheering.

"_Stupefy." _

_

* * *

_**Vonne: **You know what to do!


	17. Ain't No Sunshine

**Vonne:** Wow! I'm so thrilled to have reached 200 reviews! Thank you so much! I can't wait to continue on with 'Cellar Door'. Thank you everyone for motivating me and keeping me ready and willing to write new chapters every week.

**Sarah: **Crabbe is definitely a psychopath. But I was always really impressed with his determination in the last book, especially the way he turned against Malfoy before he died. I always keep that in mind when I write him. I think that he'd definitely had to have lost it before he garnered the courage to do something so out of character in the last book. I try to fill in the pieces. I'm so glad that you liked the last chapter. I made this one even longer! I hope you like it! And I can't wait to read your recommendation once I have the time. I'll bet its an amazing read.

**Isabella120: **Alright, of course! ;) I hope you like this chapter!

**Manitou2422: **Thank you so much! Your review made my day! I'm so glad that you were able to get through sixteen chapters! You have no idea how much I appreciate all the compliments. I've tried so hard to pull everything off and I'm so glad to hear that you're into what I've written so far! I really hope that you like this chapter just as much!

**WordWrytha: **Thank you so much! I'm so, so happy to hear that you've liked everything in this story so far. Your review was so motivating and special to me! Thank you for the compliments and I hope you like this chapter just as much.

**BlackandRed17: **Aw, thanks! I'm happy to say that you'll get your Dramione moment at the end of this chapter. ;) I hope you like it!

**Stupidamericanidioms91: **I've decided that I don't quite like him either. He's an absolute terror, that one. I hope you like this next chapter. Crabbe's taken leave, so perhaps Draco will get some well deserved rest... or some sort of rest, at least. ;)

**Luckie29: **Maybe I'll add a longer one sometime in the near future. Or, better yet, maybe it won't be that much of a fantasy scene? Who knows? I'm with you though, I love writing romance, especially romance that poor Malfoy tries to fight but, in the end, looses. I'm so glad that you enjoyed reading it! And you were totally right about Crabbe getting suspicious. He's definitely got something against Draco now, huh? So much for that short-lived friendship.

**Forbiddenluv: **Draco's been having a difficult time lately, hasn't he? Unfortunately, following the trend in my stories, he can only go further downhill before he manages to pick himself back up.

**Corey Fitzwilliam: **AHAH, _my days! ;) _Yes, poor Malfoy's going to have quite a hard time wriggling his way out of this rut, isn't he? I hope you like this chapter! Thanks so much for your reviews, I love reading them every week!

**Tragic Slytherin: **Oh wow, long review! I love, love reading your long reviews. Anyways, Draco's been drinking quite a lot lately, hasn't he? It's hard for me to condone his behavior, though, as alcoholism has been in my family for years and I know how it goes. Of course, I myself am not an alcoholic, yet I've drank to excess on multiple occasions and I've got to agree with you- doing anything while intoxicated is almost utterly impossible. In fact, I'm rather impressed at how mobile I've made Draco through the course of this story. He's quite the trooper that one.

I'm sorry to all of your who reviewed the last chapter after this chapter was submitted. I still appreciate your reviews! Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!

And now, finally, chapter seventeen...

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_"Ain't no sunshine when she's gone._ _It's not warm when she's away._ _Ain't no sunshine when she's gone_, _and she's always gone too long_ _anytime she goes away."_**  
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**Chapter Seventeen**  
**Ain't No Sunshine**

Draco Malfoy woke up to a world of blur.

Coming to was the worst part; trapped behind the fog of hazy vision, the blond let his eyes flutter shut and remained still. Everything hurt and ached and strained; his entire body felt spent and worn. And, dizzy, he could feel the seeping trail of blood as it pooled at his ankle, circulating around his bare feet that touched the end of the pool of liquor that he lie slumped in. Hard and chilly underneath his jagged spine, Draco reckoned that he was still on the living room floor before he heard footsteps. Staggering and slippery, they moved around him before settling still and stopping short at his pathetic torso. But the creak of the something that moved around him remained nothing more than a rusty little bend of the ground from the weight of someone unseen. A pair of sweaty stubby hands made a gentle grab around his ankle and he felt it. They muttered something- that someone- in a deep and uneasy tone and then hastily, the ping of something soft and warm ran fuzzily up the length of his leg.

Malfoy felt the pain expand and then subside, dulled in the way that it shrunk so steadily back into itself. Oozing, it seeped back around the circumference of his foot, hot and bettered. His foot was placed timidly back on the floor and the air shifted around him. The leg of his trousers were pulled down gently and then a brush of sudden fingers grazed his unclothed shoulder. The pain of the simple touch made his head spin, but behind the lids of his weakened eyes, Draco saw a dark and gigantic shadow begin to take shape. "Draco?"

_"Mm?" _Exhausted, Malfoy pulled his eyes open and blinked into the darkness. After a moment of adjustment, he was finally able to register his surroundings. Uncomfortably on his back, Draco rest in the same position that he'd faded out in. He was only inches from the coffee table, legs stiff and straight, swimming in the flood of alcohol that Crabbe had doused him with. But Crabbe was gone, replaced only by the jittery being that stumbled feverishly about him. And Malfoy then saw the figure underneath the illuminating orange light of the elegant chandelier. It was a massive thing, broad shouldered and heavily set. Yet the panicked expression behind the being's eyes was unmistakable. Lit up by the glow at the tip of his outstretched wand, Gregory Goyle appeared almost as ill as Draco felt himself.

"Draco!" Goyle heaved, face pale and fat. He leaned back slightly with his fingers around the end of his wand. His voice mixed around Malfoy's ears; a blend of chaos, the remaining sense that resided in Malfoy's throbbing head was clouded over with the last of his previous drinking binge. He leaned over and was sick all over the carpet, adding bile to the collection of stains there- his mother would kill him when she discovered the newly thrashed state of her beloved thing. Goyle reeled away, panting heavily. He took one look at the blond and his voice was nothing more than a high-pitched and horrified whimper. _"Fuck!" _Draco blinked into the sight of his bile, woozy as he spat the remaining contents of his stomach from his lips. It felt better to get it out and, regaining himself fractionally, his vision cleared in appreciation. "Stop it- Draco, lie back down!"

_"_I'm_ hungover, _Goyle, not dying_," _Malfoy retorted, but felt unreliable as his arms gave way and he slumped forward into Goyle's fleshy chest. He'd tried to pick himself up off of the ground, though came up rather unsuccessful. Still in a mess on the ground, his head felt like a block of cement. "What happened?" he groaned.

Goyle didn't answer Draco, but instead pushed him lightly back onto the ground. He fiddled with his wand and tried to avoid making eye contact with the unsightly state of Draco's bruised shoulder. However, he seemed to have trouble in overlooking it. He looked faint, but the wrinkles that lined his forehead marked him as curious and quite obviously so. "Where did you get that?" he asked Draco, eyes lingering over his slumped shoulder. He stared down at it, allowing his gaze to flicker up at Malfoy, who's eyes wandered around the living room, dazed.

"I fell," Malfoy lied, gracious for the way that Goyle did not bother to press on.

Nonetheless, Goyle remained all the more horrified. "Crabbe says you're hiding something," he murmured, his voice low and frightened. He watched Draco intently and waited. Malfoy locked his gray eyes within Goyle's. His breaths became even more slow and heavily so. "But... y-you're not hiding anything, are you, Draco?"

He watched Goyle intently and saw the way in which he refused to believe something so dangerous. His gaze shivered with uncertainty and he sat in silence, fingers loose around his wand patiently. And Draco shifted slightly in his spot on the floor. He averted his eyes and felt the churn of something guilty twist in his stomach. "I'm not hiding anything, Goyle," he told him and the larger boy leaned back gently. He mulled over Draco's clarification and smoothed out the front of his own pyjamas, giving a single nod.

"Crabbe's really mad," he told Malfoy, and his eyes fell down to the shards of broken glass at Malfoy's left. He looked miserable and outright solemn. There was no hint of malice in his words, only, he voiced his words out loud with a large grimace plastered on his chubby face.

Malfoy felt his shoulder seer and ache. He clenched his teeth together, saying begrudgingly, "Crabbe's a git."

Goyle shook his head. "God, Draco, all you do is set him off." Malfoy scoffed and then Goyle extended his wand outwards. "Hold still." Draco winced as another healing charm rushed up his body. His shoulder surged with heat and then cold, instantly. "Any better?"

"A bit," Malfoy told him. He shifted his shoulder, rotating it around in a circle. It hurt only slightly, but Draco found that he was able to pick himself up, staggering into a sitting position. He glanced down, noting the faded color, and raised an eyebrow up at Goyle wearily. "When did you lean Healing Charms?" he asked, spare hand clamped over his newly repaired limb.

"A while ago," Goyle said, looking flushed, "when I figured I'd be needing them." He paused for only a split second and then his voice dropped all over again. No longer did he speak with stern forcefulness. Rather, everything seemed to fade away from his demeanor completely, leaving him only with a vast amount of uneasiness. "I thought you weren't fighting with Crabbe anymore?" he asked, eyes hovering just above the rug. Malfoy, on the other hand, let his eyes dangle over the curtains. He was certain his wand had landed somewhere around in the area.

Making a face, Malfoy scanned the living room. "We're not fighting," he said conclusively.

"I heard you yelling," Goyle insisted and, fearfully, Draco wondered if Hermione had heard them, too. He wondered _what_ exactly she'd heard before he shook the awful thought from his head.

"We're fine, Goyle," Draco retracted, but his statement lacked conviction. Nonetheless, as if to prove a point, Malfoy inched himself back up and staggered to his feet, allowing Goyle to help him rise. His legs felt like jelly, unsteady and unreliable as if he had not used them in his entire life. Hesitant, Draco tested out his ankle, though found himself surprised to find that Goyle had done a rather impressive job in healing it. He passed the boy a gracious glance and then sniffed, smoothing out his blond hair in a collected manner that was only slightly faulted by his shakes.

When Goyle felt Draco push away from his support, however, he watched him stagger off through the living room, notably bee-lining towards the thick drapery of the nicely drawn curtains. "What are you doing?" Goyle asked, still anxiety-ridden. He stood in a dumbfounded slump, hands dangling at his side as he scanned the darkened living room.

Malfoy did not even turn around. Only his voice carried through the stale air to ask him, "Goyle, have you seen my wand?" Delicate white fingers pried up the hem of the curtains, revealing nothingness. Next, he slipped to the other end, pulling up the fabric for a second and more furious time. But Goyle had not seen it and so he just stood, eyes searching the black vision of the grand room for such a thing with no avail. It was Malfoy, however, that grew more animated. His fingers yanked away at the curtains, and his hands pulled past the sets of heavy furniture. His wand, however, was nowhere to be found. "That fucking _prick!"_ Malfoy seethed, and he sent a swift kick into the wall, turning around red and flushed in the face.

"What's happened?" Goyle asked, standing still to see Malfoy reel around, his eyes set on the case of stairs that pulled out in front of him.

"He took it," Draco replied flatly, though Goyle saw the intense way in which his knuckles whitened as he gripped the iron railing.

He followed Draco up the stairs, timid and slow, with his hand on his own weapon for good measure. Nonetheless, Malfoy only swung the door open to the bedroom, yanking his injured body through the doorframe in a way in which Goyle found almost harmful. However, Crabbe was no where to be seen, and Draco started off in an instant, yanking away the covers on the beds furiously. He pulled the sheets to the floor, starting off with his own bed and finishing with Crabbe's. He ignored Goyle's meek protests from behind him, yanking out clothes in the closet and peering desperately under the rug that lined the floorboards.

"I'm going to bloody _kill _him," Malfoy panted, his face contorted into an expression of fear and rage. His fingers shook as he pried underneath the springy mattress.

"I thought you weren't fighting!" Goyle backtracked, his shoulders slumped and useless.

Malfoy's head shot up. He didn't say a word, but instead stalked towards Goyle, blond hair an absolute mess on top of his sweating skull. When he'd arrived within an inch of Goyle's flabby figure, he struck out his trembling hand and stared down intently at Goyle's wand. He waited for only a split second before he gave in and handed his weapon over to Draco, an ample amount of tension tightening in his very chest. Yet Draco only spun around, ignoring the ease in which he tortured his ankle, and pointed the tip of his wand into the center of the bedroom. "_Accio wand,"_ he breathed and suddenly, as expected, the drawer next to Vincent Crabbe's bed gave a sudden jolt.

Goyle felt his wand as Draco returned it to him, shoving it back into his chest and darting deeper into the room. His gray eyes burned with resentment and his fingers found the knob on the dresser, yanking the drawer open with such force that the thing almost flew out of the furniture piece entirely. He stared into the opened drawer, scanning the wreckage of books and smut magazines, tossing them from their piles and to the ground. And yet, there it was, hidden underneath the facade of useless junk; Draco Malfoy clasped his hands over his wand and spun around with gritted teeth to face Goyle all over again.

"Where is he?" he hissed, looking something like a walking zombie. His eyes drooped with dark circles and his skin was pale and glistening with sweat and a rather obvious lack of proper sleep. His clothes were soiled with alcohol and his shoulder struck out from the torn collar of his shirt. An absolute eye-sore, Draco Malfoy looked convincingly hostile.

Watching Goyle carefully, Draco's head ran a mile a minute. "He left," Goyle reported, equally as frantic and terrified. He watched Draco's chest rise and fall with each heavy breath. "He came in here, and I saw him leave..." Goyle's voice quavered for a moment. "I didn't know that he had your wand, I swear!"

Draco felt his grip tighten. He was certain he'd never been more angry in all his life- not at Potter, not at Weasley, and not at Hermione. "Where?" he asked and his heart practically bolted out of his chest. He felt sick, woozy, and intoxicated; being hungover, however, did not stop him from wanting nothing more than to hex Vincent Crabbe into oblivion. "Where'd he go, Goyle?"

"I don't know. He only left about an hour ago," Goyle insisted, but his unsteady gaze gave him away. "H-He said something about the Death Eaters," he began, freshly fidgeting with his wand. "That's all I know- I barely heard him!"

Malfoy froze, his eyes at the doorframe as if he were ready to rush out of it and haul himself in search of Crabbe. However, he did nothing. Rather, the moments ticked by and Draco's posture deflated. His eyes lost their flicker. Instead, he slumped back down onto the mess that he had made of Crabbe's twin sized bed and buried his wet face in the palms of his clammy white hands. "Fuck," he muttered out loud, defeated. His hands squeezed the roots of his blond hair, forcing the locks to stick out in all different directions. When he shifted, he moved only one hand over his mouth and stared hazily at his feet on the floor, his wand lifeless and limp in between his wiry fingers.

When neither of the two opted upon immediate speech, Goyle shifted his weight. "What's going on, Draco?" he asked, looking queasy. Remaining still with his hand still covering his mouth, Draco Malfoy didn't even look up. He shook his head slowly; whatever was going on, he really did not quite know. Thus, lost, Goyle chewed reactively on his bottom lip. He looked shaky, as if he were having a hard time properly keeping himself together in one piece. "What's gonna happen?" he pressed on, sounding something like a small child.

Malfoy's hand slipped away from his mouth. Looking unsure, he said sternly, "nothing's going to happen, Goyle."

Gregory Goyle shifted his weight. "It doesn't look like nothing's going to happen," he murmured, instantly exceedingly pale in the face.

But Draco insisted. "It's fine, Goyle," he told him, this time looking up long enough to make himself sound certain. "Don't worry about it." He inched back on the bed, deciding for a moment what a good view he had of his own from the way in which the mirror had been positioned at the wall. He wondered how many times Crabbe had glanced into the reflexion at night to watch Draco sleep. A cold shiver ran up his spine as he considered the fact that the boy had probably done such things quite often.

His attention was brought back up to Goyle, whose face had not left his. "But Crabbe was absolutely livid," he assured him, still standing awkwardly in the doorframe. He looked petrified, his body ever so tilted as if he couldn't quite keep up his balance. The pupils in his eyes shuddered and he looked as if he were about to relive something utterly unimaginable. Soon enough he was saying shakily, "I followed him out... he stepped over your body on his way to the front door."

Malfoy's eyes followed his. The mere image of Crabbe nonchalantly overstepping him in his unconsciousness made his head hurt. He wanted to murder him and he wondered why he had ever considered him sane. A rush of odd bitterness swelled in his core and, despite jealous over Crabbe's newfound guts, he couldn't help but loathe him with every core of his being. "It's fine," he repeated again, trying to calm himself. He reckoned he'd done an awful job at it, however; every passing moment made Draco just that much more furious.

He wanted to stop hearing about Vincent Crabbe, wanted to stop thinking about him altogether. Yet everything about him seemed to remind him of the boy- his aching ankle, his throbbing head, and the smell of liquor that seeped out all over his torso. He hated the way that things had so instantly turned on him- one minute he and Crabbe had been best mates, and the next he could barely even stand the thought of him. He dug his fingernails deep into the scalp of his blond head of hair. He wondered how quickly his life had gotten so vastly out of hand.

"But Crabbe was-"

"I don't give a damn about Crabbe, Goyle." Draco felt bile rise up in his throat. He hated being hungover. Thrusting his head back into the palms of his hands, he groaned inwardly to himself. Defeated and hot, he grabbed fistfuls of his hair and mumbled bitterly into his lap. "He's a fucking psychopath..."

Hermione Granger's words coming out of his own mouth. He wondered why he'd opted on calling Crabbe on his insanity, wondered why it had seemed so casual and true to him now. Yet, the realization that, once again, Hermione had been right came uneasily to him. Nonetheless, he hadn't even noticed his distinct slip of the tongue until Goyle blinked. He watched the slumped outline of Malfoy for only a split second, his lips parting to form the words to the question that he wasn't even quite sure how to ask aloud. "A psychopath?" was all he'd managed, eyes narrowed and brows lifted. He looked confused and hurt, as if he had never expected such an accusation in his entire life.

"He tried to bloody kill me, Goyle," Draco retorted, red.

"But..." Goyle's face was contorted, twisted with absolute confusion, "b-but he thinks you're trying to...". Goyle's face flushed. He couldn't finish his sentence. It didn't matter, however; Draco Malfoy knew exactly what he was trying to say.

"I'm not doing anything," Draco said, lying through his teeth. "Goyle," Malfoy continued, his hair falling lifelessly in front of his face, "he was about two seconds away from casting _Crucio-"_

Goyle's face flushed. "He's just t-trying to do what we all want to do, though," he said, looking at his feet. When he glanced up, his eyes were uneasy with confusion. "Right?"

"We're not trying to bloody _kill_ each other," Malfoy retorted, though he lacked any sort of malice in his voice. Instead he used the time to study the expression on Goyle's twisted face. He guessed he had never seen the boy so utterly confused throughout all the years that he'd known him.

Neither of the two spoke for a long time. Instead, Draco only watched Goyle as he stared at the ground beneath his feet. He looked as if he were about two seconds away from fainting or bursting into tears- finding Malfoy passed out on the floor in the center of the living room had obviously done quite a number on him. And yet, he seemed too torn, as if he could not quite make up his mind on what he'd wanted. But Malfoy was not completely sure as to the way in which his head had worked now. Once, when Goyle had been simple, he may have perhaps had an idea at least. Now, Malfoy couldn't even begin to place a finger on it. "Draco...?"

Sniffing, Malfoy breathed in. The air in the bedroom was just so stale. "Yeah?" he asked awkwardly.

Goyle changed his footing. He fiddled with his fingers and picked strangely at them. When he looked back up at the blond, his eyes were pained with lack of clarity. "_Is_ there something going on?"

Malfoy glanced down the stairs. He saw through the hallway in his mind's eye and led himself down to the Cellar where Hermione Granger had been kept prisoner. He thought of the meetings he'd had with her and bloody Potter. He thought of the plan and the letters. Against his better judgement, he thought about crying in front of her like he'd cried in front of Moaning Myrtle. He thought about how she'd healed his broken nose instead of killing him right then and there. Then he thought of the frighteningly lovely daydream he'd had about her. He'd thought about kissing her and touching her and liking it. "There's nothing going on, Goyle," Malfoy said again, his gray eyes unmoving and serious.

But Goyle was still uneasy and he shoved his hands in his pockets as if he were still undecided. "Because... y-you'd tell me if there were something going on, wouldn't you, Draco?" he asked and Malfoy wished that he hadn't. He looked back up at Goyle and he was certain he'd never seen him look more naive.

"I'd tell you, Goyle, but there isn't," he replied, ruthlessly sticking his ground. He thought of all the times he'd lied before and wondered why, this time, he felt differently about it. He couldn't tell Goyle- if the Death Eaters knew that he'd known, then he'd be responsible. Draco, in spite of himself, knew he could never live with that.

"Okay, but, err... do you promise?" Not quite certain as to how to put it, Goyle's face dropped. His eyes, sloppy with sleepiness, watched Malfoy intently. Draco could almost hear the rough beat of his heart behind his weary chest.

There was a split second in which Draco considered taking everything back and he hated, more than anything, feeling alone. Everything about the childish innocence behind Goyle's stare weighed down heavily on him. And, pausing, he watched the way in which Goyle watched him back, hopeful and expecting. Yet he wasn't certain as to how much he'd suspected and he could not have people expecting anything. But staring at Goyle made his head hurt and he wished, for a slight moment, that he'd never ended up in the situation that he was in anyway. All at once, he hated the War and Voldemort and Crabbe and the Death Eaters. He wished he were back in Hogwarts worrying about potions class and Quiddich practice. He wished he'd never started talking to Hermione Granger and he wished he didn't hate Vincent Crabbe so much. Nonetheless, the point that he was at in his life was the complete opposite and, sitting sloppily on the mattress, Draco swallowed his bitterness to accept it. Despite the look on Goyle's face, despite the resentment that he had towards Crabbe, he knew that he couldn't tell him.

Thus, he looked dazedly back at Goyle and tightened his jaw. He was in this alone and, as horrifying as it had been, he'd just had to accept it. Thus, feeling the shakes of his anxiety rush throughout his shivering torso, Draco tried with all his willpower to calm himself. He wondered how he had ever started turning in to such a bloody Hufflepuff.

But Goyle was intent and waiting and Draco, true to what he'd thought, delivered to him exactly what it was that he'd wanted to hear. "Yeah, Goyle, I promise."

He watched the expression on the boy's face change. His eyes lingered upon Malfoy's pale visage for only a moment before dropping to his feet. "You got to tell Crabbe that, you know?" he muttered, looking almost convinced. Draco relished in the ease it took for him to convince Goyle, though he couldn't help but to hate the way in which his demeanor looked so pained. "If you tell him that you're not doing anything then maybe he'll get off your back. Then everything can be okay again."

Malfoy remained seated at the edge of the mattress. "I already told him that, Goyle," Draco said, and his gray eyes searched Goyle's complexion for anything at all. He was certainly rather tired of having this conversation.

"But if you make it clear-" Goyle began again, but Malfoy wasn't having it.

Though his tone lacked any sort of bitterness, he steadied his eyes and put on an expression that displayed his obvious exhaustion. "Goyle," Draco started, deep bags underneath his heavy eyes, "I'm tired. I'm sorry, I just... it's this headache and this hangover and-"

"Oh," Goyle stammered, looking instantly sheepish, "right." And then, awkwardly, he let his mouth shut. He slipped slowly back to the door, letting his fat hand rest on the frame before finally stepping out of it. "Night then," he mumbled, waiting for Malfoy to return the statement.

"Night, Goyle," Draco drawled. He saw Goyle shut the door to the bedroom and, blinking into the newly reformed darkness, Malfoy slumped back against the mattress and pressed his eyes shut. His head whirled and his throat ached. The hangover that tainted his skull was unforgivable and, admittedly, well-deserved. Thus, he lie on the mattress buzzing, red and blotchy from the stress and the way that the world whirled all around him. He dug his fingernails into the sheets and tried to hang on for dear life. Then he bent over and pulled out the glass bottle of gin that he knew Crabbe kept beneath the bed frame.

Gray eyes glared deviously at the thing, head back against the soft fluff of Crabbe's stuffed pillow. Still reeling from his most recent lie, Draco Malfoy twisted off the top of the bottle and tossed it across the room, watching it bounce across the wall opposite him and fumble to the ground unsteadily. Wearily, he consumed an impressive amount of the stuff and winced, gulping before wiping the remaining away from his mouth with the side of his sleeve. And then he succumbed to the dizziness, absolutely and completely _drowning_ in it.

Out of bitterness, he drank the rest of the bottle and replaced the empty container underneath Crabbe's bed for him to find later. Yet, he did not feel any better when he'd finished. Rather, the spinning room wore heavily on him and, shakily, he reached up and smoothed back the blond hair that rest against his sweaty forehead. He swallowed down an ample amount of bile, whirling with the ceiling, and tried to block out the thoughts of Vincent Crabbe that only made his heart hurt.

To calm himself, Draco Malfoy thought cleverly. He considered the fact that Vincent Crabbe had nothing really on him and any worry that he had run off to inform the Death Eaters of his misdeeds was almost completely illogical. What Crabbe had on him was based off of simple suspicion and now he, Malfoy, would just have to be more careful in his sneaking around. Bitterly, Malfoy retreated back to the gin, swallowing a hefty amount before flopping back down on the mattress and spinning uneasily with the walls that leaned in so invasively around him. Yet his resentment towards Crabbe kept him going with the thing- a subtle and almost personal contest with himself that he would just not stand to loose. Thus, he finished the bottle eagerly, smiling to himself maliciously before retreating back to the pillow for proper balance. For good measure, he replaced the empty bottle underneath the mattress.

In his solitude, he loathed Potter as well and cursed him inwardly for causing Crabbe's suspicion in the first place. He thought, had it not been for that bloody Boy-Who-Just-Wouldn't-Die, he, Malfoy, would have at least had things under control. Woozy and intoxicated, Draco pressed his eyes shut and breathed out to calm himself, only to find that the action made his heart jump and his pulse quicken. He remembered how much he'd hated Harry Potter and his redhead friend, Weasley. He could do this on his own, without garnering any more suspicion, and that was exactly what he'd planned to do.

Fingers wrapped around his newly retrieved wand, Draco brought up the tip of it and aimed it casually at the dresser nearest his own bed. In a voice that was really nothing more than a slurred drawl, he spelled, "_Accio parchment," _and within seconds, he was greeted with a sheet of blank beige paper. He summoned a quill, watching it lazily as it zoomed towards him and fumbled on the mattress beneath the sheets. Sloppily, he picked it up and let it hover over the parchment uneasily. Then, because he wasn't exactly sure what else to do, he began his first personal letter to The Golden Boy.

He ignored the way his writing drooped with every other word, desperate with exasperation as he watched the ink blur onto the page. _"Harry fucking Potter," _it read and the aggressive tone was all the more intentional, "_though I'm not especially certain, it seems as if I've found myself in a bit of a rut. Let it be noted that it is of no fault of my own, but it seems that our very own Vincent Crabbe has grown a bit suspicious to the way things have been running around the house and now I must write to you to inform you of this and to say now that it is MY turn to make the plans (seeing as how your bloody 'Order' has made no progress whatsoever)." _He relaxed his jaw, staring at the parchment and quill as they seemed to dance in a blur about a foot above him as he lie on the mattress face up. _"I've come to the decision that I will not be meeting you in the clearing any longer._

_ Not only has it been an utter waste of my time, but it has also only egged Crabbe on. Therefore, you and Weasle-bee can do all the things you need to do without putting my life in danger any longer. I've come to the conclusion that I don't need your help in ruining my already ruined existence because that much I can do on my own, Potter, thank you very much. Cheers," _the quill scribbled and, as a parting note, put, "_also, please inform Weasley that he can take his Veritaserum and shove it up his vile freckled arse. He does seem to love the stuff and to a worrisome degree, too. I always knew you Gryffindors were a lot of perverts._

_Anyway," _he concluded, watching the unsightly way in which his quill's penmanship ruined the page, "_have a hay-day with the hunt, boys. Draco Malfoy."_

Faded, he watched the parchment fold itself into halves above him and he opened the windows behind the curtains with a nonchalant flick of his wand. When the owl showed up outside the glass as if on cue, Malfoy floated his last letter towards the animal and watched her take it obediently in her beak before scuttling off in the air and flying for the final time through the breeze and out of sight.

It took him not even a minute to dissolve under the pressure of his slanted eyelids, sinking into the mattress unwillingly as his wiry body refused to move him anyplace even remotely practical. Thus, he breathed tentatively for a moment, defeated in the way that he permitted the blackness to linger on until finally, _finally_ he fell asleep.

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_"Draco!" _Hot hands seized his shoulders and shook him desperately. Fingernails dug like dagger into the aching flesh that covered his newly repaired arm. Yet the daze had not faded and, winded, Malfoy only sagged back against the grip, still not fully freed from the barriers of sleep he had only just submitted himself to. And, really, he wasn't even quite sure that he'd heard his name being called in the first place. Only, he felt the rush of wind and the pressure on his bones. When the blurred face of Gregory Goyle came into view for the second time in the night, Malfoy wasn't completely certain that it had not been merely a figment of his sleepy imagination.

_"Mmm?" _was all Malfoy could muster, retreating from the boy's grip and flopping back against Crabbe's comfortable mattress. He hugged the pillow to his chest and buried himself deep beneath the sheets, willing the hallucinated version of Greg away so that he could fall back into what had been the only bout of peaceful sleep he'd had in months.

Nonetheless, much to Malfoy's dismay, the blurry vision of Goyle surged again, yanking the covers from over Draco's blond head and exposing him to the gray light that filled the tiny square bedroom. He heard the pitter-patter of rain as it slapped the roof, feeling the occasional spurts of water drops from the window he had left widely open. He winced furiously at the water in his face, cursing his the hangover that had sprung from his decision to consume the rest of Crabbe's hidden gin. Then, feeling small, he curled himself up into a tightly wound ball and pressed his eyes shut again. _"No, Draco!"_

"'M sleeping, Goyle," murmured Draco, eyebrows knit painfully together. Goyle was speaking too loud and Malfoy wondered if he'd been using _Sonorus _to amplify his panicked voice. He covered his ears with his clammy palms and brought his knees up to touch his chest. Crabbe's bed felt like a cloud and he outright refused to let Goyle tug him down from it.

But Goyle was insistent. "Draco," he panted, once again rushing towards Malfoy and pulling him away from the bed sheets. "Wake up! S-Something's wrong! Y-You have to come, quick!" He tossed the covers to the ground and grabbed hold of Malfoy's torn collar. He ignored the way in which Draco's body sloppily rose with the sheer force of Goyle's distinct desperation.

Malfoy pulled his eyes open, only to be greeted by the consciousness with distorted images and leering walls. Crabbe was still nowhere to be seen, but the bedroom remained a mess from Draco's recent rampage. He swallowed an excess of sick that rose in his throat, blinking back to the figure of Goyle that stood uneasy in front of him. His face was a red and bloated mess and his eyes were wet and shaky. He rocked Draco back and forth in a pitiful attempt to bring him back to the world of awareness. "Wake up!"

Lifting his hands, Malfoy freed himself from Goyle's fingers and held himself upright by clinging onto the sheets for support. He blinked dazedly around the room before even managing to find his voice. The thing sounded wet and unfamiliar on his lips. "What is it?" he asked, feeling a trickle of drool trail down the side of his aching jaw. He readjusted his eyes a bit more to find that Goyle was completely drenched in sticky perspiration.

When he spoke aloud, however, he did so rushed and horrified. "She was screaming," he began, "so I went to c-check on her."

Malfoy froze, his gray eyes locking back on Goyle intensely. "Who was screaming?" he asked hoarsely, his own bout of panic rising in his chest, "Granger?"

Goyle's head bobbed up and down feverishly. "S-She just wouldn't s-stop and I didn't know what to do but there was blood everywhere and she was sick in the corner and I think Crabbe hexed her before he left, but I don't know what he did and she looks like she's dying, but she's not supposed to die- not now- because that's _your_ job, not Crabbe's and-"

Draco ignored the spinning of the room and his hands searched for his wand anxiously before he spotted it on the ground. He stumped messily from the mattress and whisked it up from the floor, untangling himself from the covers and the sheets and the pillows. And Goyle continued to speak behind him but now his voice was nothing but a jumbled mix of words that Draco could not have heard even if he'd tried. Instead, Malfoy skidded out through the room and stumbled down the hallway, head reeling, heart pounding, eyes unfocused and unclear and bothersome.

"T-The Death Eaters don't w-want her to die yet... not now... not without Potter," Goyle continued, his feet hard and heavy as he staggered on behind Draco. "Y-You h-have to f-fix her or they're going to be really _mad _and then we'll be in trouble and maybe they'll kill us for f-fucking this up-"

Using the railing for support, Draco dragged his feet across the steps and overlooked the way in which he almost lost his footing on the way down. But Crabbe stopped uneasily at the top of the stairs, hysterical and rooted. His hands were wound in the scalp of his choppy brown hair and he flopped on the ground with his head in his hands, breathing so drastically that his heavy breaths sounded out all over the room like an echo in a cave that was ongoing and never ending and all-consuming.

But Draco continued across the living room, surpassing the mess that had become of it, and stumbled towards the hallway of the Cellar, his own heart pounding like battery acid in his ears. He reached his wand out and swung open the door to the Cellar, letting it bounce off the wall and dent the elegant wallpaper before swinging shut and locking automatically behind him. But it was the odd sound that emitted from the bottom of the Cellar that frightened him. He heard her heave, a dry sob protruding from her throat, and listened to the scrape of her bare knees against the stone ground beneath her.

It happened too fast and Draco's head still ached, but wordlessly, he fumbled to her side, pushing her brown hair from her face forcefully and gazing sternly into her eyes. He wasted no time with soft gestures, managing to grab her chin and stare at her, buzzed, before even registering the state she was in. "What hurts?" he asked her, eyes searching her face for a possible clue. But Hermione only whimpered, pulling herself towards him and so that she rest her forehead on his chest. She gave a timid sigh and her body relaxed as if she were going to pass out.

Smoothing back her hair once, Draco ducked his head down to meet her weary one. He grabbed her chin and lifted her head up back towards his. "Don't pass out," he begged. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"Don't remember," Hermione slurred, but her hands reached up and she grazed her stomach painfully. "Hurts."

Draco left Hermione's head against his chest and redirected himself so that he had a better view of her torso. He lifted her hands from her stomach and saw the tear of the fabric and the way that blood coated the entire front of her once pink jumper. He glanced at her apologetically before lifting up her shirt and peering to get a better look. Hermione moaned and the moment that he brushed his thumb against it in inspection, her head pressed down against his shoulder as she tried to curl back up into herself. Malfoy's brows knotted together. _"Shh,"_ he breathed, "it's okay, it's just _Sectumsempra_..." He remembered the last time he had healed Granger before, repeating Snape's countercurse mechanically. But this time it was different because he didn't want her to die, not for his own sake, but for her's. "It's okay, just..." he paused, lifting Hermione from off of his chest and coaxing her to the ground.

He watched her against the stone, chest rising and falling frantically as she tried to breathe steadily. And then, as he had last time, Draco repeated the spell that sent the blood slowly back into her body and through her flesh as it knitted back together in repair. But this time Hermione did not sit up and blink easily to greet her surroundings. Rather, she shut her eyes as her skin rearranged itself, opening them only to watch the finish before gulping and moaning and balling her fingers into two tightly wound fists on the ground by her slender sides. Though only her clothes remained stained with red blood, Hermione's face sat pale and ill as he eyes fluttered back and her mouth parted weakly.

"No, no, no, no, no..." Draco clamored back up to Hermione, yanking back down her shirt and scrambling to her face to push her frizzy hair from her opened lips. But she did not even seem to hear him. She slipped back against the stone and her eyes threatened to close, lashes batting as if she were struggling to remain awake and conscious. And Malfoy's face paled, sick with his hangover and his failed attempt to better Hermione in front of him. Thus, voice breaking, he cupped her cheek before he could even think twice about the action. "Don't pass out," he commanded shakily, worried that, were she to become sick in her sleep, she would choke, "hold on, I'll be right back."

Then Malfoy picked himself up and bolted. He ascended back up the stairs despite the pain in his ankle and whisked open the door to the Cellar for the second time, mind racing. He broke through the hallway, greeted by the horrified panting from Goyle who remained seated trembling at the top step. But Malfoy's pace lead him through the living room and into the kitchen. He stumbled by the marble island and pushed against the countertop, directing himself towards the large gated door that he knew all too well blocked the space of Severus Snape's potions supply.

When he lifted up his wand, his voice cracked to deliver the spell. _"Bombarda!" _he rasped, though he'd delivered it successfully. A small explosion shot out from the tip of his wand and collided within the lock of the door, busting it open furiously. He heard the crack of the metal and stammered forward through the opened door, muttering anxiously, "_lumos,"_ to provoke a small bulb of light from the tip of his wand that shook unsteady in his grip. And in the dark he found it, a deep red liquid in a small glass vile- Snape's 'Revive' Potion.

Gasping gratefully, Malfoy whisked the glass from its shelf and staggered away from the closet space, pushing against the walls to propel himself forward with force. He felt dizzy and anxious, almost on the verge of unconsciousness himself, but he couldn't stop- wouldn't stop- and his feet carried him forward despite the weakness that surged through his very core. He had no time to marvel at the swift and impressive way that he fumbled through the large house, passing objects and furniture by in a rush that made things even more unclear and impaired. Thus, for the third time, he stumbled through the living room and past Goyle, pulled open the Cellar door and carried himself painfully down the steps, thumb popping off the stopper to the bottle before he had even reached the very last step.

The moment his knees hit the ground, a splintering jolt ran up through his very being and he almost lost himself for a moment before crawling back to Hermione and brushing his palm across her sweaty forehead. She didn't even flinch. Eyes shut and bruised, Hermione's visage was etched in fear even behind her facade of unconsciousness. But Draco reached anxiously behind her head, propping her skull up against his body so that he straddled her, legs outstretched and crooked against her slender sides. He smoothed away the rest of her unruly locks and his hands shook as he pulled her head gently back against him, watching her lips part with the simple motion of it all.

He let his wand fumble to the ground, unimportant and useless compared to Hermione then and there. But it was unwilling and subconscious, for he hadn't even heard the clatter of it as it struck the ground near his bent hips, rolling only inches away from him before blending into the dark of the shadowy Cellar. And he held his breath as he raised the vile to her mouth, uneasy as the potion tumbled down her throat and into her system. Still, he let the vile drain before he dropped it to the ground, breath harsh and hoarse as he waited and waited and waited and waited and waited.

She didn't move a muscle, but instead remained lax against him, and Malfoy held his breath in waiting. He counted the seconds, tallying each unwilling drip of the leak in the ceiling, feeling all the more weak and all the more dizzy as the moments passed without any shift. Without registering his action, Draco lifted Hermione higher against his chest, pressing her there as if letting her go would only damage her further. "Come on," he whispered in a voice that was far too desperate to be recognizable as his own, "come on..."

As if on cue, a low moan sounded out from Hermione's throat and her eyes flickered back open. From his space above her, Draco froze. But the feeling of Hermione moving against his chest made his shoulders droop and, stunned, he released the hold he'd had against her, permitting her to let her head slip around to find his gray eyes. And, though she appeared just as dazed as she had before, her body did not slump back to sleep. Rather, she blinked into the space surrounding her and let her head fall back.

And, absolutely exhausted, Draco's own body gave way and he fumbled down to the ground as well, letting Hermione remain sloppily between his legs with her head against his chest. He ignored the jaggedness of the stone beneath him, so distinctly different from the comfort of Crabbe's pillow back on his bed upstairs. Nonetheless, his hands dropped to his sides and he stared up in a daze at the ceiling, letting everything pour out of him at last. He released the panting breaths from his rush, swallowed the bile of his hangover in his throat, and blinked the haziness from his foggy eyes.

When Hermione's head lulled to the side against his heaving chest, Malfoy didn't even blink. Far too numb to notice even the slightest movement, he barely even heard Hermione when she murmured deliriously, "mmm... what happened?"

Draco tried to keep his eyes open and he even forgot all about the wand that he'd lost somewhere in the blackness. "You fell asleep," he said simply, and though it was unintentional, the casualness of his chosen words relaxed her.

"Oh," Hermione mumbled, her eyes slipping down again gently. She was almost completely certain that her time of consciousness was running thin. "'M tired," she told him in a voice that was just so small. Her chest expanded slowly, deep and sleepy.

His headache throbbed and swelled. He had never felt so sick in his life, but he was certain that Crabbe's gin had certainly not helped his situation. When he opened his eyes again to look for his wand, everything wobbled in double-vision. He saw two sets of stairs and two sets of dead Muggle girls and two sets of brass Cellar gates and they all vibrated ruthlessly in front of him. Draco squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again to scan the uneven darkness. Hermione felt light and weightless against him. "Try to stay awake, okay?" Draco said, without conviction.

Hermione's hands slipped off her stomach. Her fingers did not graze Draco's outstretched ones, but she came dangerously close. "'M jus' gonna close m' eyes," she informed him and her eyes slipped downwards, her breaths low and unrestrained.

"Just stay with me," Malfoy instructed, but his own resistance betrayed him and, before he knew it, he was staring at nothing but the darkness behind the shutters of his eyelids. He felt the prickle of exasperation wash over him and then everything shut down. Hermione's body moved gently against him; she breathed out timidly and her cheek rubbed up against the fabric of his alcohol coated shirt. She was fighting it and he knew and so, once more, he heard himself mumble, "just stay with me..."

And then he, too, faded into blackness.

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**Vonne: **You know what to do!


	18. It's Oh So Quiet

**Vonne: **Thank you so much to everyone that reviewed for the last chapter! I'm so happy and I had so much fun reading them all. Thank you very much. Unfortunately, I don't have time tonight to respond to everyone, but I promise to make up for it in the next chapter. I made this chapter extra long (somewhere around 8,400 words) so I hope that you all enjoy it!

Thank you to: **Miss. Lila-Russel**, **LE Candeh**, **MCLanna**, **Lola La Lola**, **Psychic City**, **Lively McBrighten**, **Starlight Sanctuary**, **Sarah**, **Tragic Slytherin**, **Stupidamericanidoms91**, **Isabella120**, **Corey Fitzwilliam**, and **Forbiddenluv**. I appreciate those that review so much! Thank you, thank you!

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_"It's. Oh. So quiet_, _it's oh so still_. Y_ou're all alone_ _and so peaceful until..._ _you fall in love_ (_zing boom)_ _the sky up above_ (_zing boom)_ _is caving in."_**  
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**Chapter Eighteen**  
**It's Oh So Quiet**

The morning was black and deep and covered in shadows.

He was lying on his back, head struck against the cold hard floor that rest jagged and sharp beneath his heavy head. He couldn't see, but he could sense- every single thing that rest around him outlined in bold, big and distinct in the blackness. And the pressured weight on the front of his torso made him weary and unable, though in his haze he permitted it to linger for a moment, feeling finally freed from the solitude that had so mercilessly plagued him beforehand. Then, spent, he pulled open his eyes and gazed into the frizzy fluff that was a soft fuzz of lively brunette locks.

Long overdrawn breaths wracked Draco Malfoy's flattened chest. With a large inhale, he soothingly breathed in the scent that seeped from Granger's greased up scalp. She smelt absolutely vile, but Draco didn't flinch. Rather, in his semi-sleep, Malfoy moved his clammy palm forward and brushed his fingers across the top of her skull, a gentle and kind stroke that made her body shift as she moan tiredly against him. It was oh so quiet, all _too_ quiet. Yet it was that simple movement from Hermione's weary figure that made Draco Malfoy stiffen. His eyes burst open and there he was straddling Hermione Jean Granger on the floor of her very own dripping, dingy prison cell.

Gasping, Malfoy bolted upwards. Against the whirl, Hermione slumped lower against his body, slipping down lifelesly as he whisked himself back to the conscious world around him. But in the darkness he blinked his eyes back into normalcy, blond hair falling over his forehead in a way that was both bothersome and messy. Though through the last of his daze, Draco glanced down at Hermione to find her with her arms wrapped around his waist in a loose and unconscious hug. She moaned sleepily and pressed her head against his torso, a ghostly form of what Malfoy initially thought was a smile slanted across her face. It made his stomach lurch and, sputtering backwards, his heart leapt as he scampered horrified across the Cellar floor.

_"Fuck!"_

Raspy and hoarse, Malfoy's voice echoed off of the stoney walls around him. His head clattered against the rock and, mortified, he glared at Hermione, still tained with sleep on the chilly ground before him. Her features were lowered with the loss of warmth and, curling into a tight ball, her smile faded with the passing seconds. But Malfoy only panted, throat aching through the heated pump of his racing heart. He scanned the scene, finding his discarded wand in the emptiness. And he faltered as he scurried back towards it, scooping it up and clamping it to his heaving chest before breathing a vast collection of swears into the dampened Cellar. _"Fuck."_

Quickly he surveyed the state of Hermione's chest, watching it rise and fall securely. Then his eyes drifted back up through the gates of the Cellar, eying the very top door with a wave of panic that flooded terribly through him. He wondered with a wave of nausea how long he'd been asleep and whether or not he'd been discovered. Expecting the worst, Malfoy considered the possibility that, were he to climb the set of stairs that stretched out before him, he would be greeted a ready group of Death Eaters in waiting. A cold chill ran up his slumped spine; Draco instantly felt sick and _oh God_ this was it, he was going to die.

A trembling hand smoothed back his head of hair, breathing out steadily to properly regain himself. And he pulled himself back into a standard stance, sick with fear and frustration for the sleep that should have been prevented. But, bracing himself, Draco extended his weary legs forward, overlooking the way in which his worn clothes sagged against his shoulders, lifeless with the torment that his shirt had suffered even over what had just been the last twenty-four hours. Rather, he broke through the gates, jumpy as he overstepped the mound of Muggle girls that remained vile and rotting on the stone beneath him. His hands gripped the gate and he locked it with a whispered spell, ascending to his death, to what he just _knew_ to be his doom...

And then he held it; fingers wrapped around the handle of the Cellar door, Draco held his breath in silence. Every second made his head whirl and his pulse quicken. The limbs that Hermione had slept on only ached more so, his ankle twisted and impossible and crooked- an awful support for his wiry and unstable figure. But every second made him anxious and every drip from the leak in the ceiling made him falter and, just when he wasn't sure if he could take it any longer, Draco Malfoy pressed himself against the door and pushed it open with his eyes pressed shut and his breath held tight.

He waited for the hexes, for the large calloused hand that he was certain would surge forward and clasp around his neck but nothing- _nothing- _came. He waited a few moments before pulling his eyes open, glaring into the blackened living room of the Malfoy Manor. He let his breath out in small, hoarse fractions. Nothing greeted him but the flow of the curtains, long and winded as they stretched out upon the vastly open hallway. He let the Cellar door lock behind him, slipping down the corridor to stare into the completely deserted living room.

Only Gregory Goyle remained standing- however, not literally. There, partly hidden beneath the shadows, was a soft and round lump. At the top of the staircase, Goyle's body lie back, his legs dangling over the steps in a lifeless form that made him look ragged and floppy. The pale, pudgy hand that rolled out from along the steps lay curled and unrefined above the floorboards and rough little breaths echoed from his chest. He sat still in his sleep, unaware to the presence of the newly arrived Malfoy, dumbstruck with disbelief. And still, he swallowed the feeling of uneasiness, glancing one last time over his shoulder for the figures of those he was certain were there. When he saw nothing, however, Malfoy's body numbly slipped back into productivity; carrying his heavy feet up the grand staircase, Draco remained feeling solitary and uneasy in his bout of it. Yet he met Goyle in his place, using his wand to lessen the weight of the heavy weight figure and slumping his unconscious figure up into a fractionlly seated position.

Flabby and unfocused, Goyle's body flinched wearily before his two eyes fluttered carefully back open. His gaze did not lock within Malfoy's, and when he spoke, Draco was certain that he was only partially conscious. "Did you fix it?" he asked, chin down against his chest. His breath reeked of alcohol and Draco didn't even bother pulling back.

"Problem solved, Goyle," Malfoy insisted. "Can you stand up?" His gray eyes surveyed the lulling position of Goyle's fragmented figure. Unsteady and unstable, even Goyle's arms trembled to support his large build.

Nonetheless, Goyle started into action. He used the wall for support and, almost impressively, garnered a rather steady stance for himself. "I thought we were going to die tonight," Goyle told Draco, eyes scanning the bottle-shaped bulge in beneath the fabric of his left pocket. But Draco didn't need an explanation. Rather, he smiled weakly back at Goyle and pretended not to notice thinking, were he to have been in the right mind to think it, he would have probably done the same thing. And hazy, Goyle allowed Draco to reach over and pull his thick arm around his own slender neck and, within moments, Goyle was slumped up against Draco's thin side just to properly hold himself upright. When he realized he had not received an answer back from the wobbly blond hold him up, he asked rather doubtfully, "we're not going to die tonight?" His mouth dragged out the syllables into long, messy sounds that collided sloppily against Draco's shoulder.

"Not tonight," Draco promised and he moved forward, pleased when Goyle's foot followed in pursuit. He assisted him down the hallway, overstepping the empty bottle of liquor that fumbled from Goyle's trouser pocket in the process.

"You were down there a really long time," mused Goyle, face reddening at the bottle, despite having passed it by. Malfoy stiffened against Goyle's body weight, but said nothing, eyes focused on the stretch of elegant wallpaper that led them to the bedroom that he'd still known to be an absolute mess. Thus, Malfoy pulled open the door to the bedroom that he'd shared with the others, listening to it creek open before pulling himself through the narrow doorframe. He scanned the wreckage, leading Goyle in through the front and maneuvering him around the piles of sheets that covered the floor. When they had reached the frame the nearest bed that belonged to Goyle, Malfoy breathed a sigh of relief when the added weight flopped onto the mattress and buried himself beneath the covers.

Draco watched Goyle's shirt fumble out from the blankets and land in a distorted heap upon the floor. He reached out with his wand, muttering, "_Accio pyjama shirt," _before the blur of Goyle's fleece night shirt rushed over to him and smashed gently into his chest. He handed it to Goyle underneath the covers, watching the mound beneath the blankets rearrange themselves as Goyle whisked it over his shoulders and buried himself into the depths of his pillow. When the movement stopped, Goyle's voice was just a muffled projection of intoxicated slurs. "Crabbe hasn't come home yet," he informed him uselessly, for there was no form of steadiness in his tone. Rather, he spoke as if he were teetering on the verge of unconsciousness again. Malfoy smoothed his greasy hair back with a set of five aching fingers.

"Good," he stated calmly, stepping away from the edge of Goyle's bed the very moment he heard the sound of soft snores rise out from the pilings. He dragged his feet back to his bed, weary and excited for sleep however, caught his eye of his reflexion in the mirror along the way. His hair fell lifelessly in front of his face where the deep crevices of dark bags rest underneath his eyes. His posture was a jagged form of pathetic, crooked along with his ripped shirt that was covered in Hermione's blood and his father's alcohol. The yellowing bruise on his shoulder stood out distinct and unmistakable, despite having been healed rather impressively by Goyle, and the wonky way in which his ankle supported the rest of his body made him look almost improperly crippled. He grimaced, frowning back at himself before finding the courage to undo the buttons of his shirt and stare into the unsightly form of his chest.

He scanned the surface of scars that coated the exterior of it, fingers shakily tracing each one as he moved closer towards the bathroom mirror, lured inwards by it. But by then, his grip just found the outside of the sculpted porcelain sink and he steadied himself at the front of it, swallowing the last of the bile that climbed to the brink of his throat. And stumbling he pulled himself towards the shower, twisting on the faucets with an uneasy jolt of desperation because _oh God_ he had to get it all off for the sake of his own sanity.

Malfoy flinched away when the water ran outwards rapidly, cursing himself at his jitteriness before tending to the waist of his belted trousers. He undid the straps, pulling the legs of his pants off of his legs and standing against the cool sink as the steam from the shower grew big and all consuming around him. It fogged up the vision of his unrecognizable self in the glass, ate him all up and covered the memory of the putrid sight with bursts of white, blurry clouds. And, once he'd been devoured, he stepped in near the water though for a moment, only managed to watch it trickle like drops of rain before allowing himself to step beneath it.

The water fell to Malfoy's head harshly, flattening his blond locks instantly against his skull. Under the faucet he stood stilly, unmoving and unblinking, eyes cast down at his feet as the water beneath him tinted red and brown with blood and dirt. He felt the trickle of the heat run down his chest and he shut his eyes through the smoke, holding his breath and surveying the drain with its colors and the tie-dye swirl in which it ran _down down down down down_ before disappearing back into the tiles. Mud seeped into the cracks between each shimmering square and blood curved with the trail that it left behind jaggedly. And because he was still bloody cold, he wrapped his arms around himself and bent forward until his knees were on the floor; and then, even still, he didn't stop descending. Legs stretched out before him, Draco pressed his head against the tiled wall and sat down near the drain in a daze. He drew in another breath and then pressed his burning eyes shut.

However, behind the blinds of his shut eyelids, Draco Malfoy was not offered any means of relaxation. He thought about how much Hermione needed a showed and, in the slight seconds that he'd kept his eyes held shut, he was absolutely _plagued _with the image of Hermione Jean Granger pulling the shower door back open and sliding in between the small space. She didn't even have to remove her clothing, but they stuck to her figure and she stood staring down at him with a smile and a head of frizzy brown hair that deflated in the steam and the smoke and the heat. And then she, too, was on her knees and leaning towards him to brush away his own sloppy blond hair and the image was so fucking vivid that he could _feel_ her breath on the tip of his nose when she whispered, "in this together, aren't we, Draco...?"

His eyes snapped open with a fast snap, bringing his head back against the wall with a frustrated slam before tending to the bar of soap at the shelf nearest him. He scrubbed his body clean with intensity, hands moving quickly to get the stench of blood and grease and liquor off of him. He slammed the damned thing back on the shelf, made a sharp grab for the shampoo, and let it run in the palm of his hand just before running it through his scalp. When he pushed himself underneath the water again, he smoothed his hair back with his hands and watched the foam rush around and around and around and then he shut off the drain and stumbled from the shower.

Draco's hand whisked away the fog that had covered the mirror over the sink and he blinked into the vision of his supposedly clean reflexion. His hair, wet and slicked back, no longer fell sloppy and greasy against his face. His eyes no longer carried the extra weight of dark drooping circles, and his skin was white without the occasional smear of blood. But something felt different, but he couldn't put his finger on it and, furious, he swiped up his discarded clothes along with a lovely show towel that he held around his narrow waist. Thus, Malfoy clamored through the ungodly bedroom on fast feet, grateful for the sounds of Goyle's persistent snoring. He found the knob of his dresser drawer and withdrew a gray-blue knit sweater and a pair of pressed black trousers. And with a rush of bitterness, he forced his head through the neck and his legs through the trousers. Yet when he finally emerged through the fabric, his hair was out of place and his pale face was red and he knew that, no matter what, it was all just one vicious circle. So he sat at the edge of his bed and stared through the room to the bathroom and watched his faded figure in the reflexion of the mirror with his hands in his lap and his feet on the floor and his teeth clamped so harshly down on his lower lip that they threatened to draw blood over and over and over again.

And then Goyle's body twisted gently in his sleep again, too, and with a soft and comfortable moan he was silent. Malfoy wished he could sleep that well, admitting to himself gravely that the only times he had done so recently, he had either been blacked out drunk or straddling Hermione Granger in the corner of the Cellar. Draco frowned, pushing back the offending blond hair with his palm before letting them fumble back down to his lap. He wondered where Crabbe had gone off to, despite himself, wondered when he'd come back and what he'd _do_ when he came back. Draco's fingers clenched the end of his slender wand and he considered now what _he_ was going to do to _him..._

What he'd needed was a drink. And he planned to make it his last one, too, because now he needed to get focused and prepared. Now he was going to do this his own way and the proper way and he thought with sheer conviction that he would make it so that it would be impossible for him to fuck it all up. Thus, he lifted his wand and summoned the very last of his own alcohol from the depths of his bed. He gave Goyle's mattress a soft kick and, when the sheets rustled with the larger boy's sudden movements, Draco watched as his massive head rolled out from beneath them. "What?" Goyle croaked, eyes glossy and unfocused. "You woke me up," he told Draco and he dragged his sleeve over his drool-encrusted mouth wearily.

Malfoy didn't even look up. Instead, he focused his eyes on the two glass cups that floated in the several inches ahead of him. He emptied the contents of the bottle into the glass and squinted at the sparkling liquor. "My last drink ever, Goyle," Draco announced, though there was no pride in his speech. "Care to celebrate?"

Gregory Goyle regarded Malfoy in silence, a long while passing before he blinked, uncertain that he'd even heard the blond correctly. When he moved himself from the covers, he did so slowly, shoulders slumped and rounded underneath the fabric of his enormous pyjamas. He sat only slight upright, observing Draco observe the glass as if trying to find something hidden within it. "What do you mean that's 'your last drink'?"

"I'm quitting, Goyle," he said seriously, and then cocked his head towards the spare hovering glass, "do you want this?"

It took several overdrawn seconds, but eventually Goyle nodded slowly, saying, "sure..." as the thing directed itself to his weakly outstretched palm. He remained unmoving as Malfoy sipped at his, eyes glistening with the first sip, but he did not down the entire drink in one go. However, Goyle took in the newly cleansed sight of him, hair slicked back and shiny with the remaining water drops that stuck to it. "Your hair's all wet," Goyle dumbly noted aloud, but mainly because he could not think of anything else sufficient enough to say.

Draco looked almost too solemn for his own good. When he spoke up, his voice was riddled with exhaustion. "I just washed it," he replied.

"When I was sleeping?" asked Goyle, who had not yet taken a sip of his liquor. Instead, he remained swirling his glass around lightly as though fascinated by the little waves the rum made behind the transparent barriers.

Malfoy didn't notice, but rather watched the surface of his rum with distain. He said only, "yeah," and then ran his fingers through his hair all over again, scooting it back into its appropriate place.

And Goyle's eyes glanced downwards to gaze below at his own oafish feet. "Oh," he said, and finally took his first sip. When he found Malfoy's stature again, he shifted his own uneasily. "Err... Draco?"

"Hm?" Malfoy mumbled, remaining solemnly preoccupied with his own golden drink.

"I don't get it. Why are you quitting?"

Draco's gray eyes lifted. "I don't know," he responded with a shrug. "Seems kind of stupid, though, doesn't it?"

Buried beneath the sheets that covered his grand white mattress, Goyle gave a timid little shrug. "I don't know," he muttered honestly, glancing back over at Draco's glass; it wasn't even enough to get him buzzed. "Just a bit... random." Goyle's brows furrowed and he chewed uncertainly on his lower lip. Malfoy didn't say anything to this and he was grateful when Goyle let his silence slide, opting instead to direct the conversation in a slightly different direction. "Guess that leaves just Crabbe and me, then, doesn't it?"

"Well, _someone's _going to have to walk around here with a clear head," Draco reflected, taking another sip. He tried to think quickly of all the things that his newfound sobriety would give him. Perhaps he would think more on his toes, and garner an entirely new sense of swiftness when it came to dueling Crabbe in the downstairs living room. _Perhaps, _he thought to himself with a wave of hopefulness, _it would stop him from having rather vivid dreams of Hermione Jean Granger. _

Then he regarded his distorted reflexion in the liquor weakly. "Guess I had to start off _somewhere,_ didn't I?"

"Yeah," Goyle murmured uselessly again and looked down. He narrowed his eyes and made a face. "I wonder what Crabbe's going to say?"

"I don't know," Malfoy shrugged. "He never quite thought I was one to handle my liquor."

A slight scoff sounded out from Goyle's side of the room. He leaned back against the wall behind his back and repositioned the covers over his legs carefully. "You know, I've always been surprised at how well Crabbe can handle _his_ liquor..." Draco watched Goyle for a moment quietly, acknowledging the truth in his statement before shaking it off pathetically. Still, he turned back to his glass and took another small sip, wincing. If there was one thing about alcohol that he was going to miss, it was definitely _not _going to be the taste.

"He's been gone for a while, Crabbe has," Malfoy noted, eyeing his wand in his lap. Something about his light gray pupils flashed and _this_ Goyle noted.

Goyle gave a mild shrug. "He goes out sometimes," he said simply, as if it were no big deal. "I see him leave in the middle of the night."

Draco narrowed his eyes. His shoulders dropped and his body seemed weak and unsupportive. "You see him leave?" he asked slowly, and he wondered why he'd never heard Crabbe advance from his bed even once. Goyle only nodded and shrugged and Malfoy, pale in the face, seemed rooted to the spot. He set aside his liquor glass and paused for a moment to collect his jumbled thoughts. When he looked up again, his eyes were wracked with curiosity. "Do you know where he goes?"

The unease in Goyle's voice was unmistakable. "Well, mostly he goes down to tend to Granger, of course," he informed Malfoy diligently. "But sometimes he just goes out and sits in the backyard."

Malfoy wasn't sure he'd heard him correctly. Blinking uncertainly, the blond was certain that he didn't understand. "He goes out and _sits _in the backyard?"

"Well," Goyle started again, cautiously, "he says he's been spotting this owl flying around here lately."

And Draco's entire body froze. Everything about his entire being felt inferior and dissolving. Nothing felt right and everything felt jumbled and Malfoy wasn't even sure how to speak because he just couldn't form the words in his head that ran a mile a minute around and around and around and around again. All of the color vanished in his face, leaving him with the complexion of a rather ill being-green and tinted and woozy. He thought of the letters he'd been sending back and forth and how he was certain that no one had noticed that bloody bird as she made her rounds. He thought of Crabbe staring into the vast and starry sky every night in waiting. He thought of how close he'd ever come to getting his hands on it and the mere idea of it made him sick to his stomach.

When Malfoy found his voice, he was surprised at how dry he'd sounded. His eyes stung when he spoke, posture riddled down to a complete and utter mess. "Crabbe told you he's seen an owl flying around the Manor?"

"Yeah," Goyle said, furrowing his features, "every so once in a while."

The wind from the open window made chills run up Draco's hunched spine. He sunk deeper into the knitted fabric of his sweater in horrified disbelief. "What else did he say?"

"Nothing," Goyle shrugged, shaking his head slightly. He seemed to search his brain for the memory of such a conversation he'd had with Crabbe, but came up empty handed. "He just mentioned it, really." Goyle paused, pondering for a moment, and then glanced back up. "Why? Did you see it out there or something?"

"'Course not," Draco quipped all too quickly and Goyle's face contorted into a jagged little frown.

And then, though neither of the two had opted on speaking, something gave a hard and obvious bang from downstairs. Goyle stiffened and brought his back away from the wall instantly. Malfoy on the other hand, leapt crookedly from the edge of his mattress and whirled around to find and retrieve his stick-like wand. His heart raced as he located it, watching the glass of rum wobble on the top of the wooden dresser nearest him. But the footsteps had already sounded throughout the house and both of the boys were certain that it was Vincent Crabbe making his way up the staircase. And Goyle's eyes looked wide and frantic, face reddening with every passing moment. Yet the noises still came and, as Malfoy's fingers coiled around the bulk of his wand, something creaked outside the wall of the shut bedroom door. Then the shining knob turned.

When Draco flinched, he remained panting and stone straight on the floorboards beneath him. He watched the door swing open and, within seconds, was greeted by the face of a weary and worn-out looking Crabbe who took one hasty look at the scene there before him and asked in a heavily heated tone, "what's all this about then?"

Eyes reddened and slightly lidded, Vincent Crabbe looked as if he'd spent his time away from the Manor fighting off sleep. He wore a pale white button-up shirt underneath the bulk of a light gray knit vest and his collar was slightly jagged in the way that the dark emerald Slytherin pin cast it down heavily. And, despite the obvious extra pounds, Crabbe looked something like what Malfoy had remembered looking like once- a proper excuse for a Death Eater drone, poised and steady and something like a rock. But he didn't even look at Draco when he walked through the door, instead opting to glance towards Goyle, whose jaw popped tightly.

"Draco's going to quit drinking," he announced, lifting up his glass.

Crabbe scoffed. He jabbed a sausage-like finger in the direction of the dresser. "So why's he drinking one right now?" he asked, gliding into the room with perfect ease. He passed through the mess and overstepped the sheets that had been stripped from his bed in the wreckage, feigning casualness as if he'd expected Draco to have gone looking for his wand. Only, a small, "huh," escaped from his throat when his eyes found the thing gripped tightly in Malfoy's hand. Nonetheless, he continued walking until he reached the bathroom door and pulled it open, staring at the foggy room with one brow lifted.

"It's his last one," replied Goyle, giving Draco a defeated glance in the form of a sad smile.

"Who took a shower?" Crabbe asked, ignoring the answer he received from his question before. He scanned the room steadily with his eyes and then glanced at at the two in the room through the reflexion in the bathroom mirror. Rather than bothering with an answer, Draco passed Goyle a second glance, face contorted into a perplexed and bitter expression. He looked as if he were ready to hex Crabbe right then and there, but Goyle shook his head quietly and his eyes buldged with warning. When Crabbe turned around, he leaned against the doorframe and this time, finally addressed the damage. "Room's a fucking mess," he noted.

Crabbe rolled his eyes when neither of the two responded back, retrieving something that bulged out in the pocket of his dark black trousers. When he lifted his hands back to the surface of his clothing, he'd produced the figure of a polished liquor flask and thumbed the top off steadily. He took a swig and his eyes glistened when he glanced back up. Yet, he cocked his rounded chin towards Draco and said directly to Goyle, "don't know how long he's going to keep_ this_ act up. I reckon his sobriety will last somewhere around a few hours at most."

"Oi!" Draco Malfoy was on Crabbe in seconds, trying not to limp as he strode over towards him with his wand feverishly raised. He struck the end of it underneath Crabbe's fat neck and watched as the boy's face twisted with rage. It was the first time he'd regarded Draco since his arrival back at the Manor and his eyes flashed back at him furiously. But Malfoy slammed his free hand into the wall by Crabbe's head, missing it by inches. He ignored the way that Crabbe watched him through a facade of a twisted grimace. His face was cast downwards, but he looked up at Malfoy with the intensity of his pupils, as if mentally hexing him into oblivion. "Who the bloody hell do you think you are?" Draco spat.

Crabbe grazed his focus back towards Malfoy's weapon. "I see you've found your wand then, have you?" he asked, voice blank and steady. "Well, Draco, use it while you can. I doubt the Death Eaters will let you keep it anytime soon." His own fingers wrapped tightly around his wand, but he did not lift it. Rather, he bared his teeth and overlooked the way that Gregory Goyle fumbled out from the sheets, hands shaky around his own trembling wand.

_"Hey!"_ the boy tried, but his voice was drowned out by Malfoy's, who seemed to have forgotten that Goyle had even remained in the room at all.

"Where the hell have you been?" Draco seethed, redirecting himself with Crabbe completely. His head spun and certainly he felt dizzy, but the look on Crabbe's fat face had set him off. He ignored the small urge at the back of his consciousness that told him to go back to appeasing Crabbe; if he truly had seen the owl flying around the Manor, then perhaps giving him another reason to suspect him was not the best idea. A blond lock fell restlessly in his face- he decided that he didn't quite care much about being civil anymore.

The boy's large, meaty hands lifted instantly. With full force, he shoved Draco away from him and regained his posture, lifting his wand up at his chest and directing it out towards the blond. "Wouldn't you like to know?" he replied callously. He watched Draco breathe out, chest falling drastically with each heavy breath. But for a moment, Draco was certain that he'd intended to hex him yet, fed up, Malfoy spun around on the back of his heel and glided back out through the bedroom door, absolutely and completely livid.

He stumbled down the elegant marble staircase and bee-lined across the living room, with only the sounds of the falling rain echoing through his ears. Then the large grandfather clock chimed in the distance and he knew that it was ten at night. But Draco passed the living room and the hallway to the Cellar and the dining room. Instead he headed straight to the kitchen, wand raised in the direction of his father's impressive wine cellar. He unlocked the thing with ease, as he'd done on a nightly basis, and stepped in through the gates steadily. He climbed down the few steps shakily, plunging himself into the large and lovely room that was cast into blackness by the shadows.

Then he lifted his wand steadily and spelled the candles into action around the entire place. He breathed in the entire smell of it, rich with liquor and wine and the lot, and he knew his father was going to hate him. Yet, throbbing with rage, Draco promised to replace every single bottle once his father returned. This wasn't about him- it was about Crabbe and the way that Draco _hated _him. It was about getting even and destroying him.

With an enraged growl, Draco raised his wand and stumbled over himself as his body lurched forward. Then the entire first row of liquor shattered instantly, a high-pitched sound of glass breaking echoed throughout the entire place. He watched the way in which the bottles broke into thousands of pieces, raining down on the dusty floorboards within moments. And then he turned to the next rows, spinning back around and heaving as they shattered together. And rich colors pooled out from the sides of the diamond-shaped shelves, drooling down like fountains to the floor by his feet. They flowed elegantly in deep blood reds and eloquent yellow-golds, mixing together and forming something new and exciting. But Malfoy had already moved on to the second wall, smashing it with one flick of his wand and then, they too, came tumbling down.

Malfoy imagined the look on Crabbe's face when he'd see that all the alcohol had been put to such use. The thought egged him on, and he sent the third wall of alcohol to the floor hastily. He stumbled back, dodging the liquid in the process, but wetting his bare feet as it circled around him to still itself. Then he turned to the last and final wall, putting it out with a final swoosh. And, triumphantly, the entire thing bleed, every single bottle of alcohol in bits and pieces on the ground floor beneath him. And everything went quite quiet then, save for the sound of Draco's breaths and the occasional drip drip drip of the liquor-laced waterfalls that he had created.

He waited for the sound of footsteps that he knew would arrive at any moment, even _anticipated_ them. But he was in luck because they came within the instant, loud and vibrant and mistakable. He heard the way that Vincent Crabbe rattled the house and made dust fall from the ceiling down on him lightly. And a large smile spread across his pale and perspiring face. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a slide of his wrist and leaned back against the table behind him. With casual malice, Draco crossed his legs at the ankle and folded his slender arms across his chest. He waited until the Cellar door burst open and then finally, as expected, it did.

Crabbe had come equipped with his wand, drawn outwards and positioned. Like glaciers, his eyes swept the scene, pupils locking upon each twinkling shard of glass, upon the mass chaos of flooded floorboards. Reddening, Crabbe's face turned as bright as a bloody tomato. He was fuming, his visage bright and narrowing. "_What_ in the bloody hell have you _done?"_

He seized forward, grabbing the collar of Draco's sweater with his clenched fist. When he whirled him around, he slammed Malfoy's back against the cellar shelves and redirected his wand. "You son of a bitch," he growled and practically fumed at the way in which Draco's eyes flashed with bitter amusement. He pressed his face up so close to Malfoy's that their noses touched. "Wipe that fucking smile off of your bloody face!"

Malfoy had done it; he'd struck a cord. Crabbe's fire-laced gaze burned with the loss of his beloved liquor, and yet, everything about him screamed hostility. But Draco offered Crabbe a simple shrug and, with a slight raise of his lips, smiled sarcastically, "cheers."

Crabbe's wand rose and his face contorted quickly. He shoved Malfoy back towards the entrance of the wine cellar and, enraged, shouted as a bolt of light shot out from the end of his wand. Draco dove out of the way of the spell, stumbling on to the steps and smirking back up at Crabbe, despite his own lost footing. Crabbe, on the other hand, was all the more unamused. "I'm going to fucking bury you! _Crucio!" _Much to Malfoy's luck, he stumbled from the cellar just in time to miss Crabbe's newest hex. Though Crabbe carried on after him, his breaths loud and raging as he pushed his body through the hollow space of the kitchen. "You're dead!" he hissed, and raised his wand again. The bolt of light hit the side of the cabinets and they flew from their roots, unhinged instantly.

"_Stupefy!" _croaked Malfoy, only to have the spell be blocked by a quick swish of Crabbe's wand. He tossed it back against the walls, sending the hex bonucing back into small cutting table, toppling it over. Malfoy lost his balance, falling over his own two feet and colliding harshly within the side of the island brutally. He stumbled over himself as he whisked away from the kitchen, pushing off the ground with his palms of his hands to clamor back into the living room and whirl, heaving, back around. And Crabbe was in hysterics, eyes wild and red, shoulders raised high up to the lobes of his ears.

He rushed into the living room after him and, held his round torso up while clutching the edge of the small wooden doorframe. His massive head glanced over the room, searching. And, spotting Draco in the darkness, he seethed almost visibly. His next spell missed Malfoy by inches, slamming into the cushions of the couch and splitting them with a large, echoing tear. Nonetheless, he surged, fists clenched and, within the instant, opened his mouth to shout another spell.

Malfoy watched his expression morph drastically and then- nothing. Crabbe's eyes snapped away from his front and something about him slipped away. Every inch of malice about him had gone, replaced suddenly with the contortion of confusion. His forceful frame dropped; his fire-laced eyes doused. Though the outstretched manner of his arm remained stiff, the flinch behind the wires of his fingers proved something distinct and unmistakable. He looked as if he'd seen a the walking dead and, on impact, his mouth parted just ever so slightly.

And Draco spun around to face in the same direction, breathing out in exhaustion as he scanned the emerald yard for the unseen thing. He saw the pale moon in the black night sky, the parting clouds from the previous storm, and his father's snowy white owl perched in the distance.

Crabbe's eyes moved slowly back over to Draco's. In the split five seconds that they stared back and forth at one another, neither of the two said a word. But Malfoy felt his head rush and, dizzy, he was certain that something in his eyes gave him away. Nonetheless, Crabbe was the first to move and Malfoy followed in suit after, stumbling over his own long legs as he reached out and grabbed a fistful of the boy's soft vest. But Crabbe's thick arms wrestled him away and mounted his own fingers within the ends of Draco's blond hair, intertwining around the clean roots and tugging hard. Malfoy growled, shoving a hand in Crabbe's face and, on impact, slammed him forcefully into the wall.

But the pair lost their footing together, fumbling over one another into the wallpaper and sending the end table over instantly. Vases full of flowers and frames full of moving memories tumbled from the surface, shattering on the ground beneath the boys' feet, ruined. Yet, they only fought to untangle themselves, heaving as they shoved each other aside, clamoring for their discarded wands and scuttling back into place. And it was Draco who found his first, palms skidding across the marble floor until he spotted it, gasping as he reached out and recovered it. He scrambled back upwards, eyes set forwards at the white owl with the letter between its beak, just as the clamp of Crabbe's fingers found the circumference of his twisted ankle.

Draco felt his stomach plummet as he fell forward, chin smacking the floor and sending stars across his distorted vision. And Crabbe was still on his hands and knees, frantic for the weapon that he'd lost someplace in the chaos. And then he spun, hovering over the writhing Draco to make a swift grab for the blond's own wand, but Malfoy's fingers held tight and he slammed a fist into Draco's freshly washed face, drawing blood and cracking the nose and sending his head back to the ground with a thud. Then Malfoy's fingers released with the shock of it all, flying back to clutch his face as Crabbe lunged desperately for his wand and rushing to his knees to shout, "_Accio wand!"_ with his hand outstretched and waiting and ready.

Then the discarded weapon flinched on the floor and flew into Crabbe's fingers, but Malfoy was up and reeling, slamming forward into Crabbe's side and pushing him back down. He focused on his own wand, however, giving it one distinct pull and dislodging it almost too easily. He stumbled to his feet against the wall and Crabbe, in his hurry, grabbed the curtains and regained himself as the elegant drapes fell from the windows and slammed to the floor in a great, gallant clatter.

Still, he pulled through the living room and overstepped Draco on the floor, hand upon the handle of the kissing doors that led to the backyard and Malfoy saw it just as he pushed them open. Wind rushed in through the room and Draco saw Crabbe slip through the barrier of the backyard, breath hard and forceful and panicked. Though Draco whisked himself forward, knees against the shattered glass vase, with his wand in the air. He saw Crabbe surge forward and even the owl cowered, wings spread and fluttering. The pretty bird took off into the sky, letter still clutched between the clamps of her beak, sending Crabbe in a frenzy, his hair slanted across his face as he stared after the frightened bird in the cloudy sky.

_"Descendo!" _Crabbe roared, and the spell hit the owl carelessly. From his spot on the living room floor, Malfoy watched the bird fall fast, a high-pitched scream screeching from its throat as it lost hold of the parchment letter. Then the bird hit the grass in the backyard with a loud sound that made Draco shudder. He pulled himself to his feet as Crabbe's face twisted triumphantly, fumbling through the doorframe and pointing his wand at the image of Crabbe's back.

Then Draco leveled himself hurriedly, faint and faded, as he stumbled out against the white marble balcony and back into the night. _"Impedimenta!" _

He heard the "_omph_!" that shot out from Crabbe's mouth as his figure fell down the steps that led into the bulk of the lovely yard. The clatter of his body hit the stone and he cried out, the slam of something harsh whirling out around Draco's ears. Yet Draco was determined, pulling himself past the sculpted fountain and racing to the top of the steps, his eyes searching the blackness for the owl and the parchment. However, he finally saw the bird twitch into life, large yellow eyes opening with fear before taking off again into the night, this time vanishing behind the clouds, graciously escaping any further injury. Though the letter was still unseen and Draco only stumbled down the steps the stretched out away from Crabbe, scrambling onto the grass into the dewy front.

Malfoy could heard Crabbe in the distance, pained groans emitting from his mouth as he clutched his head and rolled against the steps, blinking back into his awareness. But Draco was pouring sweat, and his throat was dry and sore and broken from the madness that bounced back out all around him. And he couldn't let Crabbe get ahold of the letter, wherever it was, because then that would be the end of him, the end of everything... the end of Hermione. Thus, he whisked himself along the facade of green, gray eyes wet and desperate for just the simple sight of it.

Still, he stumbled through the grass, feet bare against the rain-littered spaces. Every breath he drew in was hoarse and dry and raspy. He couldn't feel his toes and he couldn't think because this was the end of it- everything relied on this moment and this letter and Crabbe's suspicion because with the letter he'd no longer wonder, but _know._ And though Draco was not intoxicated, the world still spun offhandedly. He heard Crabbe shift from his place on the stairs, his entire body jolt with the sight of Draco's fleeting figure.

In a swift second, Crabbe clamored to his feet. His feet pounded against he stone and then swept into the grass, running feverishly after Draco into the shadows, the threat of rain bubbling in the clouds that twisted and turned overhead. The storm was coming again and Draco knew; a single drop of rain hit his head and ran down the front of his flushed face. But Crabbe was behind him, was so, so close; Draco could hear his breaths, hard and heaving and infuriated.

Yet Malfoy kept his eyes peeled and, when he finally spotted the white surface of the folded parchment beneath the strands of short cut grass in the distance, he tore off past the pain of his limbs, mouth parting in a pant to form the spell, "_Accio-"_

_"Crucio!"_

The next moment, Draco was on the earth. His head hit the grass and he was just _inches_ from it. The spell hit him in the back and traveled through his torso and up his spine. It traveled through his neck and to his head and then he couldn't breathe and he couldn't think. Still, it was the pain that shot through his being like electricity, for he was left gasping for air and clawing at his neck in the struggle, tears pouring down the side of his face as he writhed and curled up into himself, arms around his stomach because he was going to be sick, he just knew it.

He heard Crabbe's footsteps sound out in the sway of the grass. And then Crabbe was stumbling passed him, his own wand drawn out in front of him, pointed at the parchment, his mouth opened in a large, wet O. "_Accio letter!"_

Through the image of his blurred vision, Draco saw Potter's letter fly up from the darkness into Crabbe's hand. On impact, Crabbe fumbled to the ground, kneeling in a heap by Draco's with his eyes wide and set upon the paper as if he were about to devour it. He paid no attention to the twitching blond on the grass next to him, but instead breathed down at the letter and dropped down to the grass on the floor, spent.

And Draco knew what was coming next- the fog that crept over him was all-consuming and he felt his eyes flutter back dizzily, head against the dirt beneath the grass, wand lost someplace in the mess. He heard the whoosh of the wind and felt the drip of the rain and, over it all, Crabbe glanced up and locked his dark eyes back down at Draco. "I fucking _knew _it," he spat.

Then the world devoured him.

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**Vonne: **You know what to do! ;)


	19. The Kids Don't Stand a Chance

**Vonne: **Unfortunately, this chapter is a bit on the shorter side, but I promise that this will not be a trend in the upcoming chapters. I plan to continue to make them as long as the previous ones have been and this chapter, just about 6,000 words, will not be something that you'll have to deal too, too much with. Nonetheless, I worked hard on getting it to you all today because I've been so busy, but I knew that I definitely wanted to submit a new chapter... it was about time, I'd supposed.

Anyways, that being said, thank you so much for all the reviews and support. I appreciate it so much! Thank you to all of you that continue to review! I appreciate it so much!

**TragicSlytherin: **Smashing up the wine cellar was one of Draco's _only_ good calls, it seems, hm? Certainly everything that's been going on with Hermione has done him in horribly. Nonetheless, you're absolutely right; Draco's going to have to start making some smart decisions soon because he's really in for it... perhaps sobriety and a good taste of reality will do him in, then? Huh, oh well, I'm rooting for him, either way.

**Nala Moon: **Maybe they won't ever escape? Looks like Draco's found himself in between a rock and a hard place, hasn't he? Unfortunately, it's going to get a whole lot worse before it gets any better. Keep reading to find out! However, the only hint I can give you is that I've never given Malfoy any mercy in my stories. I love making him suffer just a _little_ too much so...

**Sarah: **First off, congrads about the horse! Did you ever end up getting one? I love animals, so I was definitely stoked for you. Secondly, I'm so glad that you like Bjork. Not many people appreciate her. I have to say, honestly, my favorite song she sings is 'Earth Intruders', then 'Army of Me'. Definitely very unique, which is what I'm all about when it comes to music. Reading that you recognized the song was awesome. Thanks for making my day!

**Isabella120: **Ah! Well, I hope you're ready for what happens next. Having read my other stories, I know you know how I like to torture poor Draco a bit. Don't hate me too, too much after you've finished reading...

**Corey Fitzwilliam: **Ah! Now _that_ is something that I like to hear! I'm glad that the last chapter turned out to be so long. I had trouble making this chapter as long, but I tried. I hope you like it anyway! Thank you so much for your continued reviews! I appreciate them so much!

**Starlight Sanctuary: **Oh no! I hope you didn't loose too much sleep over this! I'm so glad that you liked it, though! Thank you for your review and I love your username, it's very vivid for one reason or another. I hope you like this chapter!

**Forbiddenluv: **Crabbe's a bit of a dick, isn't he? I'm sorry it took a little longer for me to update this chapter, but I'm so happy to finally have chapter nineteen done and updated! I hope you like it!

**Luckie29: **AHA, Draco did need a shower, didn't he? I knew that I just had to squeeze that bit in there somehow, he had to have started to look absolutely vile. Now it's just Hermione who needs a bit of a washing, doesn't she? Anyways, I'm sorry it took me a while to update this chapter but I hope you don't hate me too much! I hope you like this chapter just as much as the last one!

**Star Cullen: **Draco's in a bit of a rut, isn't he? Poor kid...

**Stupidamericanidoms91: **You're going to have to keep reading to find the answer to that question out. I hope you like it!

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_"You criticize the practice by murdering their plants, ignoring all the history, denying them romance."  
_

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**Chapter Nineteen:**  
**The Kids Don't Stand a Chance**

He had awoken from a dream in which he'd been floating.

Strange and perpetual, he had felt himself being lifted away from the wetness of the outdoors, hovering over the vast stretch of twinkling emerald that he could only guess had been the spikes of grass that lay out around his lawn. He couldn't have told about it even if he'd wanted to, but if he _could_, he'd have commented that- right then- the sky looked mean and big and he'd worried that its was just about to devour the earth.

He hung there in the air, too, lifeless like a doll, arms dangling above the ground, legs struck downwards with his torso, half bent and all the more crooked. Though through the muskiness he could see just the very ends of his swinging white-blond hair as his head was struck back and his neck was angled and peculiar. For he'd been lying as if on display there and, despite the sweater, he was still freezing cold. But he'd dreamt of how his wiry ankles stuck out from underneath the hem of his wet, black trousers and, unsuccessful, he'd tried to bend within himself.

In his dream he'd spoken, but when he had it had been in mumbles that he could barely control and he spotted the way in which the dribble of clear, cold spit drools down the point of his chin before fumbling to the slowly moving ground below him. Then he'd shifted, feeling heavy and light all at the same time as he passed over the marble staircase going upwards, just a prop in what he was certain had been a nightmare instead of a reality. He dreamt, because he was almost _certain_ that it was a dream, that he was being carried by the air, weightless, through the night under the moon, oblivious to the occasional drop of rain that landed splashing on his weary face. And then he'd been slumped across the balcony, his own balcony of his own house, assisted by some large shadowy figure- the support of which had been the outline of a wiry old wand that held him semi-steadily. Then, in his dream, he'd been brought through the lovely entrance of parents' living room and he saw the scene through flashes of what continuously faded out into a collection of deep, deep black.

He heard a scratchy inhale that he wasn't completely certain had been his own. The breath rattled through the house and echoed back to his ears, shaking him and intensifying the clench of tightness that solidified there in his very chest like some great, big bonfire. A dry and pitiful sob bounded out unwillingly from some unseen throat and Draco was only sure that he had been the one to make the noise because of the pain that was harsh and unforgiving in his very being.

But it was sometime in the middle of his dream, when he'd floated by the couch and the leftover mess on the floor, that he felt the tightening in his chest and the struggle as if he had been trying to breathe but couldn't, just couldn't... and then a voice told him, "God, you're so pathetic," and he believed it because it was a dream after all, so he faded into the mold, eyes fluttering backwards with his head that lulled highly over the ground and his neck that felt like it was _breaking, breaking, breaking..._

Then the first thing he noticed was that he couldn't move his limbs.

The second thing he noticed was that there was a voice radiating around him, but that this time it wast not his own.

The third thing that he noticed was that it was Vincent Crabbe's, bright and proper in the closet-tight space that enveloped the both of them. He wasn't floating anymore, but lying flat on his back and Crabbe, who was no longer shaded, made himself clear and pristine and undeniable.

He said, _"DM," _and then scoffed amusedly, "that's cute; you and Potter have given each other little nicknames now, have you? Huh. Guess it's not too soon to be such close chums, I'd waver." A fat, pudgy hand drew itself nearer to the side of Malfoy's pale face; he could feel it just inches from his cheek and flinched weakly when two fingers tapped forcefully down on his flesh. "Oh, come on now, wake up, would you?" scolded Crabbe, who kept his voice risen and prominent, "it's not like you've got much time, you know..."

Malfoy's eyes flickered open to the scene of the conscious world. He saw blackness and shadow, closed in by the small room that he had now found himself in. No longer on the floor of the emerald grass of the backyard Manor, Draco's hazy vision showed him the view of the darkened coat closet and the magic-made cuffs that held together his wrists as well as his ankles. He uncurled his fingers gently, swallowing the dryness in his throat, and felt his head lazily lull to the side. Over the faint moan that he knew all to well had sounded out of his own throat, he heard Crabbe warn coyly, "Ah, ah, Draco, don't move. That's going to hurt like a motherfucker if you move," and so he raised his eyes upward, wet and unsteady on the standing figure of the bigger boy in the corner.

Crabbe gave a brilliant little smile and said, "ah, there you are! Good to see you back in the conscious world again, Draco." His hands fiddled with his personal wand, and it glowed a light pulsating blue at the tip. Malfoy's eyes found the stick-like outline that struck out boldly from Crabbe's scuffed and grass-stained trousers; his own rest there tauntingly. Nonetheless, Crabbe tapped the wand that he had been preoccupied with into the palm of his opened hand. He put on an expression of consideration and furrowed his brows, "you know, you say some funny things when you sleep."

_"Mmm_..." Malfoy groaned, feeling the hardness of the floorboards underneath him. The pounding sensation in his head was almost unbearable, worse than any hangover he had ever experienced in his life. And he took a few moments to think back, remembering the Cruciatus Curse as it had riddled through him before he'd faded completely into blackness. His bare feet scratched against the dusty wall behind him and he was still wearing the same blue sweater and black trousers he'd put on before. He wondered how he'd even ended up in the closet at all in the first place.

"What was that?" Crabbe asked rather politely, leaning in closer to the wearily dazed blond, despite remaining on two rooted feet. "Sorry, Draco, I'm afraid I can't quite hear you."

Malfoy's eyes fluttered backwards. He felt as if he were about to pass out all over again, but fought to keep his conscious, horrified as to what would be done to him in his sleep. "_Mmm..." _Draco slurred, trying unsuccessfully to voice his words, but Crabbe only pressed his body down further, cupping a sausage-like hand at the nape of his ear.

He shook his head slowly, drawing in breath in a way that was meant to appear piteous. "Hmm, looks like you're just going to have to speak up," he advised, hovering just above Draco's slumped heap of a twisted torso. When Draco tried once more to no avail, Crabbe's smile broadened theatrically. However, he leaned against the wall and placed his hands behind his back. Looking casual, he cocked his feet out ahead of him and crossed them nonchalantly at the ankle, urging, "Come on, Draco, one more go."

Draco felt the trickle of drool slip from the small space of his wet lips. His eyes adjusted to the sight of crimson red blood that stained his once nice knit sweater. When he opened his mouth to try again, he could barely understand himself underneath all that slur. "... Whurr 'm I?"

Crabbe, on the other hand, took to it instantly. "The downstairs closet," he informed him, tilting his head to one side and examining his choice of keeping-space. "It's only temporary, of course, but, _you know_, it was either the coat closet or the one in your parents' master bedroom and- between you and me- I've always found that one to be just a tad too big, don't you think?" He turned his chin downwards and brought the wand out again from behind his soft back. "I mean, who needs all that extra space, am I right?" Then he struck his foot underneath the sloppy saliva encrusted nape of Draco's neck and lifted it ever so slightly. "Besides, you look comfortable enough to me where you are right here."

Blinking, Draco felt the trail of tears slip down his face. He knew he hadn't been crying, but the stinging sensation within them had just been too much. An ample amount of blood-laced snot flooded down the front of his visage and pooled into the collar of his clothing. Though he could not see himself, he was certain that he must have looked like absolute shite. Sloppily, Draco's words blended together into a collection of lazily syllables. He heard the voice that sounded back out to him, echoing from the space of the closet. He sounded as if he were sleep-talking, smudged and smeared in a fallible mess. "... Wh..hut h-happened?"

"What happened?" Crabbe repeated back cheerfully. "Well, the post came tonight, Draco, that's what happened!" Once again, Vincent Crabbe leaned forward. He held the white form of parchment between his fingers and he waved it mockingly in front of Malfoy's nose. "Looks like you got a letter," he continued, lifting up an eyebrow. An overwhelming amount of unmistakable glee ran through his husky tone. "I can read it for you if you'd like?"

Malfoy did not answer, but instead struggled against the bindings that held him together. Stretching, he tried in vain to free his hands and legs, but only ended up scraping them against the cuffs uselessly. Pain rattled through his bones and a fresh sprout of blood trickled from the broken skin of his cuff wounds. Yet, at even the slightest movement, the thing gave out a nasty clench and tightened. A soft and defeated sob emitted from his throat and, lifelessly, he fumbled back against the ground, blinking back up at Crabbe. The soon-to-be-Death Eater staggered over him like a great big statue.

"_DM," _Crabbe repeated from the very moment Draco had opened his eyes, "_Despite your ridiculous letter, w__e are near and would like to meet with you. No Veritaserum. However, this time, our meeting is immensely important. Many are dead. HE is searching, the War is eminent." _Then Crabbe leaned back and waved his fingers over the parchment like an overturned spider. "Then they've signed their initials and everything but you know the score, I'm assuming, right Draco?"

Head whirling, Draco tried to register the words. His haziness followed him back up to Crabbe and his functioning part of his brain screamed desperately. When he felt his head shake from side to side sloppily, he knew that he was going to try to deny it. Nonetheless, the words that tumbled out from his mouth begged. He felt the tightness in his throat as he heard his own voice pleading, "no, please... d-don't k-know what that is... swear..."

"No?" Crabbe asked, bringing himself away from Malfoy's side. "Well, I guess the Death Eaters will force that one out of you soon enough, then."

"No!" The yelp sounded out from Draco's mouth before he'd even known what had hit him. And then the tears were not unexplainable to him anymore. Instead, they pooled out the front of Malfoy's shut eyes and he was coughing, sputtering against the boards below him. "No! P-Please, Crabbe, I d-don't know anything about that letter!" Panic and pain surged in his voice. Writhing against the floor near Crabbe's polished shoes, Malfoy tried again against the bindings, gasping when they cut deeper into his wrists. Nonetheless, he kicked his bound feet against the closet door, finding to his horror that the thing did not budge. "I swear, I don't know!"

"Oh, I strongly doubt that," Crabbe assured him with a click of his tongue. When he directed himself back forward, he stood with a stiff straight back, cupping his hands behind himself all over again. "But it's not like we've have to wait too much longer to find out."

Malfoy's eyes scanned the darkness, watching Crabbe's figure wearily. He saw the dark figure of his Dark Mark vibrantly underneath the rolled up cotton that was the white bulk of his shirt sleeves. When he noticed Draco looking, Crabbe lifted his fingers into the air, wriggling them again. Then, with a broad grin, he danced them over the air before his forearm, just barely grazing the flesh with his overgrown fingernails. "Don't!" Draco croaked out, instantly dizzy. He watched the threat with a thundering heart; a rise of bile flooded at the back of his throat.

Crabbe, however, grinned simply. "No?" he asked, voice raising as if he were speaking to a child.

Malfoy's newly washed hair struck out like a halo from beneath him. He ruined the image by shaking his head desperately. "Please...".

Crabbe didn't quite touch the skin that lie stretched there, but instead waited several moments before gently dodging it and instead placing his palm on the fleshy space just above the Mark. Once again, he leaned against the closet wall and tilted his head to the left, submitting himself to an obvious bout of scrutiny at the panicked Malfoy below him. Then abruptly he changed the subject. "How are you feeling?"

Head whirling, stomach twisting, Draco felt like shite. He could taste the iron-sensation of blood in his mouth, fueled by the sharp cut on his tongue that had been split by his teeth. Every ounce of his very torso was aching, every bone within his arms throbbing. And he could barely move, let alone talk. However, Crabbe was upon him in an instant, moving away from his spot against the door with his fat arms held outwards. And Draco felt the sting of something God-awful when Crabbe took to hastily adjusting him. But the boy started with his mid-torso first, turning him around so that he was no longer lying on his stomach, but flat on his back. He tapped the side of Draco's face harshly, eyes narrowing bitterly. When Draco's eyes fluttered weakly back, Crabbe's voice rose. "Oy! Don't you fucking _dare. _I've waited too bloody long for this."

Scuffing quickly, Crabbe's fingers dove into the depths of his pocket. For a moment he searched frantically, however, found peace the very moment he gripped a small sparkling vile and waved it down in front of Draco's green face. "Open your mouth," he instructed, but did not wait to see whether or not Draco was willing to comply. Rather, he lifted his pudgy fingers to the side of Malfoy's cheeks and squeezed, forcing his lips open brutally and tipping the vile into his mouth without hesitation. Roughly, Crabbe clamped a hand over Malfoy's mouth and pinched his nose shut.

But the potion was not one that was foreign to Draco in any way. From the color, he knew it to be Severus Snape's Reviving potion. Nonetheless, the pressure of Crabbe's hand on Malfoy's face was rather short lived. Too weak to bother putting up much of a fight, Draco found himself swallowing the potion appeasingly; he'd have done anything just for that breath of air. Thus, when Crabbe saw the blond's throat bob with a gulp, he released his hold and faltered back relaxedly. Draco's eyes were no longer glassy with the fog of impending unconsciousness, but instead wet with the glaze of alertness. And the very moment in which he considered Crabbe and the Imperius Curse again, he heard Vince murmur rather contently, "there. Oh, come on now, don't look so _hostile_, Draco...".

"Where is she?" Malfoy found himself asking, despite his headache, and admittedly he'd been a bit adjusted ever since Crabbe's slight slip of Snape's Reviving potion.

"Where is... who, Granger?" Crabbe asked, repulsed.

Malfoy's teeth clenched down on his lower lip. He looked as if he were about to lunge up from the floor and throttle the life from Crabbe completely. But it was Crabbe's silence made him light headed, though through his narrowed gaze, Draco could see the edges of his smile lifting. And he wore a sneer that could have matched Malfoy's old one, and a flicker of a rather obvious Death Eater-like quality flashed across his face. In the lack of light he looked almost demon-esque, a kid with a magnifying glass who stared down readily at his helpless ant. With his wand, he hypothetically positioned his weapon to the 'sun'- a mockery of a threat.

And he kept his peace, a demon prepared to present his offerings to Satan himself.

When he shrugged, something about Draco's blood broiled. "Dunno," he mused, looking doubtful, "could be six feet under... could be another corpse on that God-awful growing pile down there-"

Malfoy moaned, feeling all the more dizzy for what he'd assumed to be the millionth time in that night. "This isn't happening," he mumbled to no one but himself, really, but Crabbe picked up on the murmur and cocked his head considerably to the side.

"Yeah, well, I highly doubt that," he mused, fixing himself upright again against the wall. He stole a glance back at Malfoy, eyes leering over the sullen figure that he had only recently just perched against the ground. He watched Malfoy's eyes well up, gray beneath the thick puddles of tears that were sweeter the very moment Crabbe noticed the ways in which Draco struggled to prevent them from appearing there. His blond hair was strung across his face and his mouth, bleeding red from his fall, remained pressed together in restraint. He was trying to ignore Crabbe, and yet the attempt was an impossibility. Even in the darkness, barely visible, the boy's voice broke through his blockade easily.

And then he was saying, "one more question, Draco," but his voice was stern and hollow, emotionless even. A trickle of perspiration ran down the side of his temple and a thin, blue vein was there, unmasking his calm. Nonetheless, Crabbe let his chin drop, directing his head down towards Malfoy carefully. For a moment, he sucked decisively at his lower lip, a bout of wet spit flying from his mouth in the process. Nonetheless, he remained rather impressively together, despite the furrowed brow, despite being sheerly inquisitive. Thus, after only a beat, Crabbe's steady tone asked, "out of blatant curiosity, why Potter?"

Malfoy's head spun. In the blackness he kept his eyes squeezed shut. Why Potter? After everything, he hadn't expected such a question and he wondered if Crabe had really been wondering, or if he had only just been waiting for Draco to admit it aloud... none of this had _ever _been about Harry Potter.

"Hm?" Crabbe continued, shifting his legs forward and tapping the end of it just lightly against Draco's strewn out torso. "Why Harry Potter, Draco? Hm... I'm asking because the Death Eaters... _Voldemort_... they're all going to want to know, too." He waited a half a second, waited until he heard Malfoy's breathing hitch. "Your father's going to want to know, too."

So, one last time, Draco tried his best to lie again. "I didn't send that letter," he whispered hoarsely, but Crabbe leaned back against the wall, breathing out unsatisfied with his thick arms across his burley chest. Malfoy thought about his mother, his father, and the Dark Lord. He thought about what it had ever really meant to be a Malfoy and how, thanks to him, it now meant nothing. Weary, his gaze found the forearm of Crabbe's skin that stood out distinctly, the Dark Mark just waiting there to be touched. He was going to do it and Draco knew. Thus, one last time he glanced up at Crabbe and sloppily shook his head. "I didn't," he insisted one last time.

Crabbe, on the other hand, remained all but keen on changing the subject. He dropped his eyes down and considered, for a moment, the state of Draco Malfoy on the floorboards by his extended feet. "We'd always _hated_ that lot, Draco, don't you remember?" Crabbe added and, though his face dripped with confusion, he seemed to be piecing it all together bit by bit. "Dumbledore's fucking ponce, that poor inbreed Weasley, and that rancid Mudblood whore... Draco, what the fuck?"

Malfoy stiffened and, despite the cuffs on his wrists, let his fingers tighten into fists. And at his side, Crabbe noticed it, saw the way in which Draco's eyes burned and seethed with resentment. "What... don't tell me, you actually _like Granger?" _Crabbe asked, his voice rising with a few added octaves. Then he lifted his back away from the closet door, leaning in over Draco like a hawk, eyes wide with suspicion.

"I do not!" retorted Draco mechanically, but the reddening of his face and the beating of his pulse threatened to reveal otherwise.

And Crabbe's face morphed, blinking at the outraged Malfoy deliriously with his lips parted and his fat visage churning. He let his lips twist into a disgusted sneer, eyes flashing down at Draco Malfoy, whose chest rose and fell with tremors and pants and dry heaves. But the look only lasted a swift moment for, after collecting quite a sufficient glance, Crabbe's eyes flicked back to his forearm and the skin that he had exposed just beneath the end of his rolled up shirt sleeve. He seemed to consider something for a moment, eyes averted away from Malfoy's exhausted complexion, and then cooly readjusted himself.

"Remember when we got these Marks, Draco?" he then asked, pulling his bare arm into the light casually. Crabbe watched the boy with an enormity of intent, despite not receiving an answer back. But Draco, flinching, remembered the night clearly. He'd been younger then, more naive- all three of them. When the Death Eaters had lined them up in a row and invited them individually in through the kissing doors to the large, darkened, office, he'd wanted it.

"You wanted it," Crabbe said out loud, as if reading Draco's mind and, when Malfoy's gray eyes glanced up confused, Crabbe's face broke out toothily. "I was there," he reported, looking all-knowing, "in a sense, I suppose." The incredulous look on Draco's face was the only reply that Vincent Crabbe really had needed. Then he offered a simply gesture with his hands, practically careless. "Legilimency," he supplied insouciantly.

Pressing hard, Draco shut the blinds of his gray eyes. He tried, for a third time, to break out against the bindings, ignoring Crabbe's voice as it bounded off the walls around them. "You've dreamt about that night a couple times, I mean," he was saying, ignoring the mess that Malfoy was making in trying to free himself. "That's when I saw it, of course, while you were sleeping." When Malfoy's head collided with the sole of Crabbe's foot, a spark of flashing stars popped before his eyes and he groaned outwardly, a newfound paleness overtaking the surface of his sweaty face. "Come to think of it," Crabbe continued as if he hadn't noticed, "I do that quite a lot. You're a heavy sleeper, you know."

"Crabbe," Malfoy panted, both angry and horrified, "let me go."

But the bulky boy only shook his head. "You know I can't do that, Draco," he quipped, and then bent forward, so close to Draco now that his lashes almost swept across the skin at Malfoy's cheek. "Besides, I just want to talk." With that, he surged forward and grabbed a fistful of Draco's shirt. Always the strongest of the two, Crabbe hauled Malfoy up off the ground into a sitting position, slamming him up against the back of the closet and gripping his face before it lulled back down into his heaving chest.

Malfoy felt his head being slammed back, perched upright against the wall behind him. With a pained wince, he arched his neck and brought his skull back, eyes adjusting to the blackness of the ceiling ahead of him. He felt the cuffs tighten at the forced sense of movement, but opened his eyes to find that his legs had been struck out before him, crooked and oddly angular. Even in the shadows, Draco could make out the massive gash on his ankle, freshly bleeding through the cuffs and onto the wooden floorboards.

And yet, Crabbe leaned back, a rather loud boom sounding out as he, too, rested himself on the opposite wall. He placed one arm in his lap and lazily held his wand out at Draco's chest with the other. He watched Malfoy adjust wearily, eyes blinking slowly to make out the shapes of the shaded figures in front of him. He tried unsuccessfully to try and hide the fear that rushed around bitterly inside of him. When he spoke, his voice was nothing more than a hoarse little mumble. "What're you going to do?" he asked, staring at the black Mark.

"You were the only one that fainted, you know," Crabbe said, and once again, Draco's face drained of whatever color he'd had left.

"What?" he asked, unable to keep up.

"When we were Marked," Crabbe said again. "You were the only one that fainted. Not even Goyle fainted."

Despite the urgency, Draco's mind twist and turned with the horrible memories of that particular night. He had been the last to have been Marked. He remembered the moment that his turn had been announced, feeling faint when his aunt Bellatrix slipped through the darkness to pull him through the house. And she'd placed him in front of the room in the very center, her hand in his hair as he tried not to look around the room for his mother or father.

In the closet, Draco's eyes scanned the room desperately for an escape, but Crabbe's large body blocked the door, and the tip of his wand prevented Malfoy from moving even an inch. His eyes filled with frustrated tears, hating Potter with every ounce of his very being. Couldn't the stupid git take a hint when he'd clearly been told to fuck off? And Draco's head swam through all the possibilities of 'what if'. Had he been expecting Potter's letter he, Draco, would have kept a sharper eye out for the owl. This would have never happened and Crabbe would have never read anything. Malfoy felt sick; he wanted to kill Potter one million times over and, trapped, he wasn't even sure he'd ever get the chance.

But Crabbe was saying, "You went all slack when they were doing it, I don't know if you remember." His words were spoken blatantly, as if reading off a speech, but he stared through Draco's eyes into his soul and he looked as if he were ever so slowly devouring him. "Greyback almost dropped you, and your mother was screaming. Did you know that when they finished you had a seizure?"

Malfoy's face reddened. He hadn't known, yet despite himself, a wave of humiliation washed over him. He hated Crabbe, _hated _him. And, whatever had happened, the memory of the particular night was _his, _not Crabbe's, not anyone but his own. He felt sick at the thought of Crabbe invading him in his sleep, peering without permission into his head and watching the nights that he himself could barely even remember. But Crabbe was still talking and Malfoy was only numbly reeling, his wrists beginning to bleed and break at the skin. He felt a swell of nausea and then he was staring back at Crabbe through the thick lids of his heavy eyes. He wondered if he'd been drugged.

"I wasn't sure what happened when I woke up the next morning and you weren't in your bed. You know what they did?" and he cocked his brow up so high across his forehead that the skin there wrinkled. "They left you there. For hours, too. Until your disloyal, bastard father came and carried you up into _his_ room." With a ping of embarrassment, Draco recollected waking up beneath the covers of his parents' bed late the next afternoon with Lord Voldemort's Mark vibrant and unmistakable on the inner space of his left arm. His mother had been petting his hair and, at his right, she'd placed a grand, plastic bowl for him to be sick in. "I'm sure you remember the rest," Crabbe concluded.

"Stay out of my head," Draco rasped, and Crabbe did not even try to suppress his laughter.

"A bit late for that," he reported. "Hey, remember that time when you and that vile little Mudblood did it?" Draco froze, but Crabbe let his head shift back. "Oh right, that one was just your sick fucking fantasy, wasn't it? Tell me, Draco, since when have you liked filthy-blooded bitches?"

Writing off the nausea, Draco leaned forward, face bright red with anger and embarrassment. Yet he overlooked the tightening in the cuffs that held his limbs together and he heaved as he lunged towards Crabbe, hands out in front of him in preparation to strangle the amused life out of his very eyes. However, he was instantly blinded by the searing pain that grew throughout his entire being. Not only did the cuffs increase their hold, but a sick churning in Draco's stomach made him fall forward, chin against the floorboards by the extended feet that rest calmly in front of him. And Crabbe had barely even flinched.

"Prude little bitch, though, isn't she?" Crabbe mocked, still seated against the door. He looked down at Draco through the daggers of his unbreakable gaze. "Looks like she needs someone to break her in, wouldn't you agree?"

Blood seeped out from Draco's parted mouth and he tried to sound as menacing as he could when he slurred furiously, "don't you fucking _touch_ her!"

"No?" Crabbe challenged again, shifting only just. "Well that's hardly fair, Draco," he taunted. "And there I was, under the impression that we are mates. You're supposed to share your playthings with your mates." Malfoy struggled underneath the cuffs, though found it difficult to get any further after having landed on top of his arms in his most recent fumble. His hair skimmed just by the outstretched soles of Crabbe's polished shoes. Then his own bare feet slammed once again into the barrier of the wall.

Crabbe continued, "it's not as if I couldn't make her like it, and everything." He waved his wand tauntingly, but did not let any spell escape from his lips. "And it's certainly not as if one little Imperius Curse wouldn't do the trick." Then his eyes set on fire when he noticed Draco's ruthless struggling. "No? Alright then, you're hard to please. What about yourself?" Nonetheless, Malfoy's writhing increased and Crabbe, smirking, laughed drily down at him. "Oh, really now, Draco, it's not like you'd be _completely _against the idea, remember?" He tapped his head with his spare finger, reminding Draco that's he _had_, of course, been in his mind. "I'd simply just be giving you the courage to actually act upon it."

"I'll fucking kill you." Malfoy snapped before going dim again, but Crabbe only flinched. Glancing just minutely to his side, the boy seemed more amused by the possibility than he was threatened.

"Well, honestly Draco," he drawled, "I don't think you've really got much of a say in any of these suggestions at all anymore, now do you? I mean, I'm fairly certain you're privileges are going to be a whole lot more that revoked pretty soon." Then he leaned down and smoothed away the facade of blond hair that covered a vast majority of Malfoy's face. "You really _do_ like her, don't you?"

Draco snatched his head away. He tried to concentrate on freeing himself from the bindings, but only made his body ache in the process.

"Huh," considered Crabbe then, his expression contorted by an enormous amount of realization pumping through his features. "I'm sure the others will just love this..."

When he lifted his wand again, he redirected it back on himself. Yet, he was not playing anymore and this time Draco knew. Thus, the edge of his weapon hovered just before the end of the deep black Mark that had scattered over his forearm, a wave of life pulsating through it the very moment he saw the two make contact. And then the snake swam to action, writhing and slithering on the innermost stretch of Vincent Crabbe's flesh, a sharp inhale of breath rising up his very _core _when even the eyes of the skull there seemed to wink devilishly back at him.

And then the pain in Draco's arm started up, too. He felt it, his own Dark Mark surging with piercing pain and then his head slammed back, a strangled cry emitting from his throat as even Crabbe winced and panted through the distinct pressure that washed so painfully throughout him. For then the world came crashing down and there was nothing but the closet and the pain and the blackness.

_They were coming, they were coming, they were coming..._

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**Vonne: **Please review!


	20. With Diamonds

**Vonne: **As promised, a longer and faster chapter update. I had a bit more free time this weekend, so I was more than happy to finish up this chapter as soon as possible and update 'Cellar Door'. Unfortunately, I used the majority of my free time on this so, I don't have time to respond to everyone this time. I'm so sorry, once again. Still, I love and appreciate all of your reviews. I read every single one of them, I promise. I hope you all enjoy chapter twenty, in which Malfoy goes on a little bit of a trip...

And, of course, thank you to: **Lively McBrighten**, **Malfoy Lover**, **MCLanna, Psychic City**, **LeCandeh**, **Corey Fitzwilliam**, **Luckie29**, **Forbiddenluv**, **Isabella120**, **Sarah**, **Starlight Sanctuary**, and **Caddy Cassandra**, who reviewed every single chapter in a day! Thank you so much for motivating me. Lord knows I needed it this wekk.

Oh, one last thing for all of you wondering, this chapter's title is taken from The Beatles' song, 'Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds'...

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_"Picture yourself in a boat on a river, with tangerine trees and marmalade skies. Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly, a girl with kaleidoscope eyes."_

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**Chapter Twenty**  
**With Diamonds**

Draco Malfoy must have been drugged... m_ust have been, _because rooms didn't spin in the ways in which they were then and voices _certainly_ didn't whisper from nowhere.

Though he was lying curled on his side, he could feel his eyes flutter backwards every so often as a trickle of wetness cascaded down his cheek in the most disgustingly pathetic fashion. He was still in the closet, in the darkness, bound and unmoving, fuzzy and numb. And they were coming out from every angle, the whispers, soothing and horrible and unwelcome in his ear as he flinched back, head spinning, unable to do anything but merely lie there and listen. But Crabbe had only left him moments ago- or had it been hours?- and now the Nothingness was starting to creep in and Draco was beginning to feel like a void in the middle of all that emptiness.

Then he heard his father say, "_stand up straight, son, just stand up straight," _and the scene around him morphed, no longer a dingy old coat closet, but instead the lovely hallways of the Manor. And he was walking down them as if he hadn't been cuffed ever, his father's hand gentle yet protective on his shoulder, repeating over and over again that it was in his best intentions to keep his back straight, straight like a board, like a statue, like a proud and loyal follower of their all-powerful Lord. Keep straight, spoke when spoken to, nod and tell him the truth, that _"you've been waiting for this moment for a very long time because... well, because you have been, haven't you, Draco?"_

He was being moved through the home on fast-feet, mind still racing because he had been last and where were Crabbe and Goyle? He hadn't seen either of them come out of the room, but he had not much time to think about that because then he was standing in front of the massive doors and his aunt was there, lovely in the doorframe, a great big smile across her face with her head cocked downwards and her eyes pitched up, saying_, "ah, Draco, been waiting all night for you...". _And then he was in and the banging behind him was the shut of the doors and the emptiness at his back was the absence of his father's hand at his shoulder because Lucius had been called to stand in his place among the others with his mother... pretty, perfect Narcissa, with her eyes all filled with tears. But they were happy tears then, weren't they? Because she was proud; she'd told him that she'd been so very proud.

And then the Dark Lord said his name beyond the strips of shadow, his eyes skin a decaying gray, with his own wand extended. He spoke in series of long sentences and a language in which Malfoy couldn't understand, all the while his fingers clasped around Draco's arm in a dominating manner that made half-moon snapes in his his flesh. Then finally he asked in a voice that was hight-pitched and horrible, _"do you, son of Lucius Malfoy, willingly take the Mark of your Lord as a promise of your universal honor, loyalty, and your soul?"_

His mother's sobs hardened and his father squeezed her shoulder tightly. Behind him he felt a breath, and the warmth told him it was Fenrir's, and he was certain he hadn't felt the man creep up on him in order to get so close. But Draco said, "_I do," _and then the wand was lowered to his skin where, instantly, he felt as if he'd been stabbed there with a knife. So when the pressure set out, his knees gave in, and he sagged in the dirty arms that were clutching him around the waist and shoulders, arm held outward so forcefully by the long nails of Voldemort that he could only cry out painfully. Still, the rush of it all was blinding and he found himself digging into Greyback's skin, eyes half-opened, submerged under a growing cloud of deep blackness.

Then he was under, under, under, vaguely aware that they were laughing at him, saying, _"my, Lucius, does Draco sure look sick..."_

When he thrashed in Greyback's hands, he wasn't even certain that his body had done it. Either way, he couldn't help it though the shock that ran through his every limb made him fuzzy and numb and delirious. He hadn't even registered the feeling of opaque haziness, but only remembered hearing fractions of their conversation; things like, "_Draco... not breathing... hold him still," _and the sounds of his mother screaming. He didn't remember how he'd ended up on the floor next, but he had, and then Greyback wasn't holding on to him anymore and then there was nothing, nothing, nothing.

For then the candle light in the hallway was suddenly blown out to his world, leaving him in the dark of the office, dreaming again until he couldn't feel a single thing anymore, not even his arm. But the moment was only short lived because when he opened his eyes, he was back in the closet where Crabbe had left him, woozy and aching and blinking out the wetness that pooled bitterly down his cheeks. And he breathed in the stale, dusty coat space, twisting his hands in his bindings and whimpering as his wrists scraped against the edges, cutting deep within himself and extracting more blood from his sliced flesh.

Hissing, Draco drew away, momentarily distracted by the thought of Crabbe and the occasional thuds he heard coming from the rooms upstairs, Crabbe's demanding voice, and a slam of shaky dresser drawers. He wondered how long it had been then, his sense of time muddled by his heavy head, and tried to sit up before the voice of a woman weighed him down. But her tone was soothing, like silk, and he shuddered within himself as the sound of her faint syllables rushed through his ears, nothing more than a soft whisper that soothed cooed and comforted him.

Then it was his mother who he heard say, "_its over now, Draco, love, its all over now," _but she was nowhere to be seen except behind the mess of his memories, but that version of her was so clear now, perched on the side of her grand king mattress, hand in his hair and eyes sopping wet. There was a tug in his chest and he gasped, feeling pulled within himself as the cuffs on his limbs tightened and his head flew back, _bam,_ against the harsh wooden floorboards. But then he wasn't in the closet anymore at all, but instead his parents' soft, comfortable bed where, upon his curled up torso, had rest a collection of fine sheets and blankets. And a wet washcloth rest on his head and there she was, his beautiful mother, spare hand on his cheek, cupping it, saying, "_its over, I promise, its over, its over, its over..."_

And what she meant was the Branding Ceremony and the process of acquiring his Dark Mark; and she was right because he was reliving the moment in her bed with the bowl next to him and the pain in his left forearm strong, but faded nonetheless. She winced as he leaned over the plastic bowl, back arching as he clamored clumsily towards it, dispelling the contents of his stomach within the thing before resting his chin against the edges and blinking in the sight of his own bile that sat there, taunting and ruthless before him.

But then Severus Snape was at the closed door, just as he'd remembered, with his face blank as a slate and his mouth screwed shut and, back then, his demeanor had really just _pissed_ Draco off. So, looking over the edge of his stupid plastic barf-bowl, Malfoy squared his gray eyes up at him, looking back towards the potions professor with a face of sickly green, and said to him with the most bitterness he could muster, "what the bloody hell are you gawking at?" But Snape said nothing and Draco's stomach churned again and he was back into the bowl, heaving out yesterday evening's dinner, and the Master Bedroom spun and then he was back there, on the floor of the closet, eyes half opened and dazed and _drugged, and drugged, and drugged..._

He tried to think of the alternative, that what was happening to him really wasn't and that this was all a dream. He tried to think of himself back in his bed, still successfully planning with Granger, Vincent Crabbe none the wiser. Then he tried to think of the impossible, that the Death Eaters hadn't been called at all and that any moment he'd wake up in his bed, under his covers with his wand and his health and the promise of, at least, a couple more months to live of the rest of his life. Nonetheless, he tried to suppress a sob and figure out what he'd been given, feeling almost foreign to the odd sense of depravity he'd felt in his core, the every-so-often tug of reality that pulled at his navel. But before it had been too long, Malfoy's innards gave a shift and he was drowning again, suppressed by the feeling of the voices, vibrating through out him, Hermione's every so often saying, "_in this together?" _though he was certain that, very soon, there wouldn't be that much of him left.

Still, with his short seconds with a clearer head, Draco wondered how, exactly, he'd ever ended up in such a situation- despite the fact that he was almost one-hundred percent positive that the majority of is situation had been Harry bloody Potter's fault. He, Draco Malfoy, was never supposed to have been the unsuccessful one, the kink in the long line of perfect Malfoy blood. And he could hardly believe it himself, practically awaiting his death sentence, hearing a collection of voices as he watched the scene of his pitiful life flashing, quite literally, before his very eyes. In the back of his subconscious he heard Snape tell him, "_I have to protect you, Draco," _but he didn't want protecting, not then, because this was _his_ mission; the Dark Lord had put this on _him._

But then that whole thing with Dumbledore happened and Lord Voldemort had been kind enough to give him a second chance. Enter Hermione Jean Granger, next, held up with the support of two strapping Death Eaters, her brown hair a fluffy frizz of a mess as they carried her through the Manor and down the stairs to the Cellar where she'd spent what had seemed like an absolute eternity. Then he couldn't get her out of his head because she was absolutely fucking _everywhere_...

Nonetheless, Crabbe was saying over and over again, "_you really do like her, don't you?" _and Malfoy told himself no, he didn't, he didn't because he couldn't, just couldn't. He certainly wasn't supposed to feel anything but contempt for those that weren't pure-blooded, but something about Hermione was different and it disgusted him while intriguing him all at the same time until nothing made him certain at all anymore.

Yet the closet was once again morphing and, with a helpless cry, he was standing in front of the bathroom mirror by himself, shirtless and panting, gray eyes scanning his reflexion for something, something, anything... but he couldn't find it. And this was the day he had stood after a shower in a trace, the night after his Branding Ceremony, shock of blond hair cast over his face, looking frantically for who he was certain he was supposed to become... big-time Death Eater, redeemer of his family name, his father's son. Though then he'd seen nothing by his own figure, so pale and shivering, body tainted by the ugly Mark on his skin, something that he should have been proud of but instead, didn't know what he felt. This was the first time that the thing had started hurting, too, twisting and churning on his skin so much so that he'd backed himself up in a corner and placed his other palm on it, eyes clenched shut, teeth hard on his lower lip, breathing, breathing, breathing, until he wasn't sure that he could breathe much anymore.

But it wasn't over until Snape found him, forcing open the bathroom door to find him sopping wet on the tile against the wall, lower body covered by the cloth of too-short pyjamas, face twisted shut in an array of pain as if he were about the claw the Mark clear off his arm at any given moment. He'd given him a potion then, shoved it in his hands and watched Draco clamor for it, pouring it down his throat and leaning back against the bathtub to catch his breath, eyes sparkling at the ceiling so much so that he'd looked almost exhausted, ready to sleep within the seconds. And it had been so much more different than the time that the thing had bothered him in school, making him sputter from his common rooms in the dead of the night, stumbling through the halls to his professor's dimly lit office to ask for it again, one more time, just to make it stop because _please, please, he needed it, please._

Snape hadn't given it to him and then Draco had to learn to deal with it, sick with the pressure of the curse when he'd whisk away from his classes to stagger out into the hallway and stumble away to be sick in the boys' room. That had been when he'd heard Myrtle crying, when he'd found her in the girls' room, and when he'd spoken to her about everything, just before it had all come down to it. Then he'd let the Death Eaters in and, despite Myrtle's support, he still hadn't been able to do it. And _dammit, _that made him sick, just thinking about it because here he was, trapped in one great big nightmare. End final scene of his tragic and miserable existence. Fade out. Curtains close. Credits, credits, credits.

He wondered how he could have possibly been so _stupid, _letting his guard down in front of Vincent fucking Crabbe, for fuck's sake. He shuddered as he thought about the nights he'd spent unaware of Crabbe standing there, wand outstretched as he waited for Malfoy to breath his last breath of consciousness for the night before diving into his very mind. Terrified, Malfoy wondered what other things he'd seen, wondered if he'd explored the dreams in which he couldn't even remember himself, wondered if he's seen his fantasies of Hermione in the shower, her clothes clinging curiously to her figure, her hair weighed down significantly by the water pressure... If Crabbe had seen his actual 'torture' sessions with Granger, well then, he was definitely screwed. Thus, he considered the notion of Crabbe overlooking each time carefully, watching Malfoy loose himself over the open bust on Hermione's torn shirt, feeling weak and stupid, so stupid, as if he'd never seen a girl's open blouse before.

Because he had, of course, though it had only been once. And he didn't exactly know why he'd thought of it, but he did, the very first time he had ever kissed a girl; and he was fifteen and far less troubled, but so damn sure of himself, when Pansy had found him alone in the common room and told him exactly what she'd thought of him. Back then, he'd thought he'd liked her too, because that's how it was supposed to be- Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy. So he'd kissed her on the emerald green couch and she'd unbuttoned his pants, but he didn't feel fireworks like he'd expected, only a sick, twisting urge of panic as her hands reached over his body and she'd seemed so much more experienced than he did.

Though he hadn't had much time with her then, only putting his hands on her face and kissing her before he was harder than he'd expected and Goyle had thundered in through the door, cutting them off accidentally. But if Pansy had noticed his quick excitement then she hadn't said anything because in his sixth year she'd tried again, pulling him forcefully into a broom closet after their night class and pressing his back against the shelves to ask if he had been thinking about her and then her voice was loud and unmistakable in his ears. There on the closet floor he'd heard her, voice sweet and breathy, lashes batting slightly, so that she could whisper up close, "_I've been thinking about you all summer, Draco. All bloody summer..."_

When she'd ran her hands through his hair he'd started where he'd left off a whole year ago, moaning desperately back into her mouth, though this time he was certain he'd only done so because he had to. Sixteen and he'd only kissed a girl once, but he hadn't had time for girls now anymore, not with everything going on back at home; so Pansy's surprise was really pleasant for him and he'd loved it because, really, he just needed some attention, some comfort, some closeness...

And that was when he'd placed his hands at her buttons, undoing them one by one as Pansy stared into his eyes, short black hair strewn against her flushed face. He'd pulled off her shirt and fumbled with her bra before she had to do it for him, shedding the green thing to the ground before pressing her bare chest up on him and letting him place his head on her shoulder, holding her momentarily as if the rest of his problems had faded, faded, faded away.

_"I heard that," _Pansy had said between kisses, "_you've been Marked,"_ and then Draco stiffened, slack against the closet shelves. Pansy, though, only looked up, eyes peering through her bangs, and she was asking if she could see it, just once... _"the Dark Mark, I just want to look at it."_

But Draco didn't know what to do, but he'd known that he'd needed this, this feeling with another being, so he'd stood still and numb as she rolled up the sleeves of his robes. Then she revealed his Marked flesh in the light, fingers tracing the air over it, teeth balanced on her bottom lip, hands in his hair as she kissed him lower, lower, lower, until she sucked his neck. Still, for a moment everything was fine and nice, but then the thing started hurting all over and, instead of being strong, Malfoy fell limp and he curled within himself, despite the warmth of Pansy, to hug his torso and let out a frustrated and angry cry. The Dark Mark had hurt him again.

He hadn't been surprised when Pansy had panicked, buttoning up her shirt and mumbling, "_sorry, I'm so, so sorry," _before whisking herself out of the broom closet and shutting the thing behind her to leave Draco there alone, head reeling from the pain, shirt open and fly unzipped, sixteen years old with the sexual experience of a bloody child.

When the room morphed around him again and_, _despite himself_, _he was back in reality, he found that he was hoarsely breathing, so bloody ashamed of himself that he thought that he might have been sick there all over again. He was certain even Crabbe had been through that memory, perhaps thousands of times, and _fucking hell, he was so stupid, stupid, stupid..._

A couple days ago, Draco was no where near this sort of mess. He was sleeping in his own bed, worried only that the _idea_ of something this fucking awful could have happened. He reversed backwards to the time that he'd first seen Hermione, bloody and bleeding, and he'd told himself that killing her would come to him eventually. He wished then that he'd been able to do it, for his sake and for hers. Because now everything had turned into a mess and he wasn't sure how he was going to get himself out of it this time because this time he knew it to be the end. He would be just another corpse, the last to the Malfoy line. They'd send him in pieces up the stairs and place him in front of the bedroom door that he'd shared with Crabbe and Goyle, waiting to be buried into the dirt. He wondered for the millionth time over the past year if there really had been a Heaven and a Hell, thinking that he'd probably be damned to the latter, knowing his luck. Then an achy sob emitted from his throat because he didn't want to go to Hell, he'd already spent a year in Hell and this was it, the Manor, Voldemort, the Devil on earth.

_"In this together, aren't we, Draco?" _Her voice, Hermione's fucking voice. It echoed so trustingly throughout the closet and into his head and, if he had been able to move his hands, he would have covered his ears just to block her out. He wanted to tell her that he'd tried, but now it was just her, though he wasn't sure how long that one would even last. He wanted to tell her to shut up, shut up, shut up, because he couldn't bloody take it anymore. He just wanted it to all be over with so that he didn't have to wait, not here, not now, not ever.

This time when the room shifted and his eyes fluttered backwards, Draco saw the view of the Forbidden Forrest where, directly above it in the clouds, sat the ugly, swirling Mark. The Mark of the Beast.

Bellatrix had casted it only moments after he had failed to kill Albus Dumbledore, saved only by Snape, who had appeared out of nowhere to do the bloody job for him. Then they were running (in his aunt's case, skipping) and everyone was happy, except him. Really, he was anything _but_ happy. He couldn't even find Snape, who he'd just seen a short while ago, and now Bellatrix's hand was at the back of his neck and she was cackling like a cliche, over and over and over. He hadn't done it, of course, he hadn't killed Dumbledore, but he felt like he really had, despite being certain that the Dark Lord wouldn't see it that way. But even as he carried himself through the brush he had felt himself grow weaker. And then he thought that he hadn't done it because he couldn't do it, which terrified and infuriated him, because he, Draco Malfoy, was supposed to be able to do things like that. He was supposed to be able to kill _people_ like that.

Nonetheless, Draco wasn't even certain that he could kill at all; and then Dumbledore's voice rattled through his head, helpless on the closet floor, saying, "_years ago, I knew a boy, who made all the wrong choices. Please, let me help you." _Draco had heard the same lines over and over again in his dreams ever since. When he glanced at the Prophet and saw pictures of his old Headmaster, he heard them, too. And he was certain he'd never be able to escape them, trapped and confined to the ways in which he'd ignored the man there in the Astronomy Tower.

Still, then he'd said, _"I don't want your help! Don't you understand? I have to do this! I have to kill you! Or he's going to kill me...". _But he hadn't died. He'd just been a little bit banged up. And it was Dumbledore who had ended up six feet deep. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Draco Malfoy threw up the contents of his stomach into the closet space next to him; he didn't know why, but he did. He'd gone home to receive a collection of Crucios and tortures, but in the end, he'd lived and back then he'd been foolish enough to believe that Voldemort had kept him alive because he had seen something in him... something special and promising. It wasn't until later, of course, that he'd learned that his life had only been spared by Severus Snape, that Voldemort had wanted him dead for his misdeed all along, and that he was lucky to have even seen another day.

And since then, he'd played his cards right. Until now, of course, because this was a big, fucking misstep. He'd backtracked by millions, was standing now in the fucking gutter. He tried to think of a collection of more bloody euphemisms, but ended up coming short. Either way he'd put it, he was fucked. Still, Hermione's soft voice asked, "_in this together, aren't we, Draco?" _

Though this time he told her, _"shut up, shut up, shut up, shutup, shutup shutupshutupshutupshutup!"_

But still, he could not rid himself of her. Everything... her scent, her eyes, her hair, her voice... it blended together and taunted and tormented him and now he was certain that he'd been doing so for a while, subconsciously. Then when the sleeve of a hanging clock brushed his arm, his eyes saw instead the fingers of Hermione's soft hand. Though he knew that she hadn't been anything more than a figment of his own fucked up imagination, she was there then, too, sitting over him looking pretty, her eyes dancing over the long and sweaty figure that was his writhing torso.

Yet she wasn't saying anything but Crabbe's own words, singing, "_do you really like me, Draco?"_ and her eyes were pleading, waiting, silent for an answer. He tried to kick her, even knowing that she was not really there, but couldn't. Despite nothing more that a hallucination, Draco still didn't want to hurt her and he hated himself for it. So, instead, he watched her through a mask of growing tears, shocks of tiny bouts of electricity running through him, caused by whatever potion Crabbe really had given him, and it hurt.

Then the fake Hermione of his imagination was reaching into her stomach, pulling out globs of wet, sticky flesh and frowning when the fountain of crimson red blood came pouring out and Malfoy screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed. And she was saying, "_look, my blood's not filthy at all, Draco. I don't see any mud or dirt or worms or bugs or flees or ticks or flies or spiders..."_

But Draco, writhing Draco, he sobbed and recoiled away from her, eyes pressed shut to block out the view of Hermione altogether. Still, she kept repeating it like a cycle and Draco could almost physically feeling the warmth of her blood as it hypothetically pooled around his shrinking torso, soaking into his sweater and his hair... his clean, blond hair... making him guilty, painting him red. He couldn't do this, couldn't take it anymore. And he knew that the Death Eaters were coming for him, coming to get him. At any given moment, they'd be there, wands drawn, smiles spread, all too excited for the moment that they could end the life of the boy that couldn't end Dumbledore's. He wished he'd done it, then, wished he'd killed the man. Just so he didn't have to face this. Just so he didn't have to wait for it.

Cast in the closet, Draco heard himself crying before he could even prevent it. And then he was yelling, "please, Crabbe, please, let me out, let me out, Crabbe, please! Please! Please!" But he heard nothing but the floorboards creaking above him, and the occasional scatter of feet. He'd never be let out. What had been done and been done. They were coming, they were coming, they were coming.

When his hysterical Hermione leaned down and pressed her lips on him, he knew that his life had been one, sick joke. Because there he was in the broom closet again, pinned to the floor by a beautiful woman who wasn't Pansy, but Hermione Jean Granger, who he wasn't supposed to be kissing at all, not even in a hallucination. With his wrists bound he couldn't grab her face like he had Parkinson's, but he wouldn't have even if he had the ability. Instead, he bit out a muffled cry underneath her, Dark Mark burning as if it were on fire. She didn't ask to see the Mark, like Pansy had. Instead her hands were in his hair, running up and down his neck frantically, tongue exploring desperately the space just between his lips.

Between breaths she said his name, soft and passionate as she continued to kiss him, only kiss him, for he was doomed by the reminder of his night in that fucking closet back at Hogwarts; held mockingly in a life that was far too filled up with death, and War, and plague, to include anything happy, like women. Still, he imagined that this was as close as he was going to get... because he was going to die soon anyway... and he wasn't even _enjoying _it. Rather, he panicked as she prodded and grabbed at him, humiliated and hurting and only really just semi-conscious. Though Hermione didn't seem to notice and instead pulled her lips down to his ear, lashes batting up against the nape of his neck as she whispered something that, at first, he couldn't even make out anyway.

Then he heard her. She was saying, _"what if I really liked you too?" _and Draco lost it, struggling so hard against the bindings that now he was drawing real blood that was his own blood. And Hermione, all the while, just kept on saying it. _"What if I really liked you, too, Draco? What if I did? What if I did? What if I did?"_

Malfoy gave one last struggle and Hermione hit the wall, back arching against the closet, eyes spilling over with tears. She was clutching her stomach and her mouth was turned downwards into an overwhelming frown and she looked at him as if he'd killed her just before her eyes rolled back and her body sagged and she fell from her position onto the ground next to him. She wasn't breathing anymore, but instead still, her flesh gray as if it had been rotting for months... just like the Muggle girls, just like them. And then he was sharing the closet space with a dead Hermione, whose corpse lie next to his trembling one, eyes opened in sad accusation, hair sprawled out like a pillow, despite the red trail of blood that sprung from the leak that marked at the edge of her very skull.

But this hallucination did not disappear and Malfoy was shaking, despite the tightening of his cuffs. Though then everything was going black all over again and things in the closet vanished in the darkness, everything but Hermione who looked back at him with big, brown eyes, fingers outstretched in a dead-spider form, overturned and pathetic. He felt the surge of his own senses fading, like sleep paralysis, and succumbed to it, far too tired to fight against it anyway. Thus, when the large pull of blackness came to greet him, he allowed himself to be tugged back under.

Then finally it was nothing but the Nothingness, as if a large clawed cane popped out from the side of his 'stage' and gave him the hook.

Fade in, fade out, gone, gone, gone.

_

* * *

_

"Get up."

Rain, blackness, thunder, and a cold hard kick in his ribs. A terrible and hoarse gasp pushed through Draco's lungs and then he felt the explosion of the way that the leather boot was in his ribs, sending stars in his eyes and bile in his throat. Then he blinked his vision into clarity, revealing the shadowy outline of Vincent Crabbe who shook with tremors and moved his hands uneasily over Malfoy's front, seizing his blue collar and hauling him from the ground within the instant. He let the blond's lifeless legs stand crooked against the floor and dragged him restlessly through the frame of the closet door, pushing him with a stumble into the gray light of the living room. He stole a glance in the mirror at the right and smoothed across his short hair, spotting away a smudge of his own crimson blood before mumbling, "fuck, fuck, fuck," and clearing it off with his thumb.

Draco Malfoy wondered what Crabbe had been so anxious about before he spotted Gregory Goyle at the bottom of the staircase avoiding his eye contact. The boy's hands were in his pockets and his wand was just barely visible underneath the cast of the rain clouds outdoors that peeked just ever so casually through the white billowing curtains. Nonetheless, his face was devoid of any proper color and his posture was slack, an odd sort of redness to his eyes that made him look sleepy in the strangest sort of sense. He said not a word but instead kept his chin pressed down at his chest and Malfoy noticed that he was no longer dressed in his pyjamas, but instead a deep black suit, one that matched Crabbe's, and that the collar of the turtle neck underneath wrapped up to his jaw and looked as if it were strangling him. He jumped, startled at Crabbe in the corner, and then continued in his staring contest with the soles of his polished leather shoes, nothing more than a deep void in the entrance of the house.

"Christ, Goyle, would you stand up straight, for fuck's sake?" Crabbe hissed and Goyle immediately stiffened, back straight, arms stiff, eyes forward. Malfoy saw his adam's apple bob up and down in his gigantic throat. Every so often, his eyes would flutter up and make contact with the front door and the windows near it, waiting for something... waiting for someone. And Malfoy's stature wavered. With his hands bound tightly at his wrists he could only stare up dazed, though now he was one-hundred percent _certain_ he'd been drugged. Fucking Crabbe. He'd kill him, he'd kill him... _oh God,_ he was going to be sick.

And what was this all about, anyway? He'd been asleep again when he'd been whisked back out of the closet; and he'd been so much safer in there, in the darkness. But now nothing was secure anymore because now he only saw the floor and his bare feet and darkness, nothing but charcoal, charcoal, charcoal.

There was a slight moment of simplicity and then Malfoy succumbed to the wooziness. On his feet he stood swaying, but then Crabbe was back in his face and his shaky fingers were holding up Dracos slumped shoulders and in a voice that was unsteady and uncontrolled he swore in a tone that rattled. "Fuck... _shit... _he's drooling all over himself." Was he? If he had, he certainly hadn't noticed but then the snap in Draco's legs made him slip and he was on the floor before he knew it, head against the ground that was just so soft, soft, soft...

"W-What's the matter with h-him?" Goyle croaked, his voice raised with the onset of sheer, brutal panic. "What d-did you give him, Crabbe?"

"I dunno," mumbled Draco's poisoner frantically, his body shaking as his eyes kept glancing to the door and back again. "I found it in Professor Snape's potion cabinet... I thought it was a Reviving Potion...". Then his voice faded out and Draco knew now that none of them had even the slightest clue as to what they were doing. Not even Crabbe, who had tried to hard to pull off the illusion of experience, had known. It was all an act, a great, big act. And now he'd just about sold Draco out to the Devil and he was certain that even he hadn't expected something this big, this drastic, this unreal. Still, Draco lie on the floor in a haze and Crabbe uneasy, which was strange, because he was trying to calm Goyle, too. And all the while the world just kept on spinning, spinning, spinning... so much so that Draco was happy to have been on the ground, blinking out tears as if he were lying there for dear life.

He could have slept there forever, but then the whole entire universe shifted and Goyle's face fell and his large body was shaking and Crabbe was still and stiff and steady. Then the footsteps started and the howls of laughter echoed throughout the yard in the front; someone was skipping and yelling and laughing and a high-pitched giggle was whistled there like the wind. But now not even Crabbe looked ready and, even from his spot on the floor, Draco could see the ways in which he was perspiring. Thick and fleshy, his fingers ran like spiders up and down one another in glitchy vibrant motions that made his entire body look weak and fearful and faded.

Then a voice like nails sounded out even through the cracks of the doors, and for a moment Malfoy thought that the very ground had broken through. "_Dracooo, oh, Dracooo!_"

When the door burst open he saw her clouded in blackness, hair coiled around her face. She peered through the living room with eyes like daggers and her hands were held out in front of her as if she were ready to embrace her nephew into her arms openly. Bellatrix Lestrange was standing there in the doorframe greedily, her full and lovely lips twisted up into an elegant and horrible smile. But Malfoy could even see her through the haziness that blocked his vision and everything in his very core screamed out because _no, no, no, this couldn't be happening, it couldn't._

And behind her stood her own lot and they peered through the shaded living room with equally stretched smiles and outwardly pointed wands. Yaxley, Macnair, Travers, Rowle, Nott, Karkaroff, Rookwood, Dolohov, Avery, Crabbe and Goyle, the Carrows, even Pettigrew. Gray eyes searched for the snake-like man someplace in the wreckage, but to no avail. He wasn't there, wasn't there, wasn't there... but Draco wondered how long his absence would remain a factor._ "__Draco..."_

She tilted her head and her long black hair flowed over her shoulder, running down to the cracks of the floorboards and he saw it spread like a puddle, creeping slowly, slowly, slowly. When she glided forward she didn't seem to notice the pools of thick blackness that she'd stepped in, so Malfoy thought that it had just been part of his hallucination. But Bellatrix and the other Death Eaters weren't, because this was real... this was real... this was real. And she was standing there before Crabbe then, feet just there in front of Malfoy's nose. Yet he watched her from the ground with haziness in his eyes as his aunt leaned forward and cupped Crabbe's fat face with the curl of her wiry, white palm.

"Well done, Vincent," she cooed and Crabbe flinched, terrified and captivated. Bellatrix Lestrange was really very beautiful, of course. "You've made the Dark Lord... so _proud."_

Nonetheless, there were big, hefty arms gripping Malfoy around the waist and he was hoisted from the ground into them before he could even register that it had been Augustus Rookwood, whose hands were intertwined with his hair, pulling there ruthlessly. And his Dark Mark was burning intensely, so much so that he couldn't stop himself from moaning painfully into Rookwood's shoulder. For then, with his watery gray eyes, he scanned the open living room for the sign of his father, his mother, or Severus Snape. He saw none of them.

However, what he _did_ see was the marble floor and the way that it was moving beneath him, Rookwood's feet pacing one over the other over the other over the other until he was being led down the hall, into the darkness, away from the living room completely. The others were following him, too, eyes scanning Draco all over until he could barely watch them back anymore... the thickness of the fog was just too much and his eyes sagged, lidded heavily by eyelids that felt as if they were pushed down by weights.

His aunt Bellatrix was tutting him, her face only inches from his as he was carried away by Rookwood. She was saying, "Vincent tells us you've been misbehaving during our leave," and there was something characteristically sadistic in her smile that made Malfoy shiver all over. "You know what happens to little boys that misbehave, don't you, Draco?" Malfoy saw the swinging strands of his blond hair dangle before him above the ground. His bound arms hurt like Hell and he was barely away of the potato-sack way in which he was being carried around Rookwood's shoulders, eyes blinking down at the heaving part of his clothed chest.

Malfoy wished for his father and for Snape, who he'd never yell at for staring at him again. Severus, his sanctuary, his father, his protector. He wondered if they'd even been told, if they'd been allowed to come. And he fell dizzily back against Rookwood as the man hoisted him up further before making one last and sudden stop. Then before he knew it, Rookwood stood steady there in front of the end of the hallway.

He saw the living room no more, but instead the small Cellar door, there at the bold, bitter end... His turn, his turn, his turn. When the door creaked open and he felt the first plunge of Rookwood lowering him down into the Cellar, he finally lost the battle with his consciousness and went back under, out like a light, just like that.

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**Vonne: **You know what to do!


	21. I Can't Help Falling

**Vonne: **I am so, so, sorry to have to say that again I don't have any time to respond to all that reviewed, but this week I am extremely low on time. Basically, it seems like another excuse, but I've had a sort of emergency in my family that I've had to deal with so, that being said, I've been out and about pretty much all of this week. That being said, none of this has happened to me personally, but a close family member that we are al very concerned about. _Anyway,_ I just wanted to give a quick explanation and hopefully next week will be different.

Still, thank you so much to the_ fifteen_ people that reviewed the last chapter: **Stupidamericanidoms91**, **Corey Fitzwilliam**, **MLovexo**, **BlueMizuki**, **LivelyMcBrighten**, **MCLanna**, **Psychic City**, **LECandeh**, **Isabella120**, **TragicSltyherin**, **Starlight Sanctuary**, **Sarah**, **Forbiddenluv**, **Manitou2422**, and **Caddy Cassandra**.

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_Wise men say only fools rush in, but I can't help falling in love with you. Shall I stay? Would it be a sin, if I can't help falling in love with you?_

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**Chapter Twenty-One:**  
**I Can't Help Falling**

He wasn't exactly floating on a cloud, but he was floating nonetheless, and it felt good, at least for a few short moments.

But then he was slammed into the ground and that didn't feel good at all, not anymore, because that made everything shatter around him like glass and when his eyes fluttered open he was in the Cellar. Still, the darkness was overwhelming and he heard himself grunt from the impact, lights popping spastically before his eyes as Rookwood leered possessively over him and the others scuffed elsewhere in the shadow. And the blow made Malfoy woozy and dazed, for he was barely able to register the scream that had sounded out from the depths of the background... Hermione's scream. _Hermione..._ Hermione, who was there with him. And then Draco Malfoy panicked.

She was up and lunging, just as he'd hoped she wouldn't, but the Death Eaters with their wands were far too quick for her because all Bellatrix had to do was raise her's lazily and Hermione went sliding. Despite the struggle, her feet swept across the ground and she was forced into Yaxley's front, devoured by the thick arm that wrapped around her torso and the point of his wand as it pressed into the flesh at her neck. And then Yaxley sneered, "one wrong move, little Missy, and I'll turn you over to the dog," before cocking his chin towards Fenrir Greyback, who flashed the girl a jagged smile of his own and sniffed the air deliciously. When he smirked, the edges of his mouth curled up like a caricature of a demon and Hermione let out a little whimper before pressing her eyes shut and going slack in her captor's grip.

Then the sound of delicate heels came slow like honey and Bellatrix Lestrange was no longer in the blackness, but instead right in her hazy nephew's face. She leaned down towards him in a leering sort of sense that masked the pretty grin that spread across her face. And her hair danced like webs around her face, one that looked so much like Narcisssa's, as she cupped a hand up to Draco's slackened cheek and made a tutting sound with her tongue.

She said, "Crabbe's said you'd been a naughty little boy, Draco," and he tried to shake his head and tell her 'no', but all that came out was a pained little whimper. "Come on, tell your auntie... have you been a naughty little boy?"

Figures moved in the distance and Draco's eyes were useless through the layer of water that clouded them; yet the thin shadow in the back by Yaxley gave a powerfully impressive struggle and it took Draco a long moment to register that it had been Hermione who screamed, "s_top! You're hurting him!", _before she was shoved back to the ground. Though they had promised, the Death Eaters did not hand her over to Greyback but instead cast her down; Yaxley's girp was in her hair and he positioned her face so that she stared directly into Draco's. And her entire complexion was red, wet, and dripping with sweat. Her wide, brown eyes stared down at Draco and he was certain he had never seen her look so panicked in all her life. And even he couldn't help but find it a bit funny, all things considered: Know-It-All Granger had finally run out of ideas. "Why would you want to harm one of your own Death Eaters?"

Bellatrix's smile twitched, but it was Greyback who growled from the back of his room, "that's not what we've heard," and he looked excited, as if he'd been waiting for this moment for a very long time.

Hermione's head snapped up and Malfoy almost mourned the loss of her eyes, finding himself staring now into the faces of the leering Death Eaters. Nonetheless, her body remained in front of him and he watched her face contort as she spat back in the wolf's hidden direction. "Well then you've heard wrong!"

"What's with the tone, Mudblood?" Yaxley pressed and Hermione's figure gave way again, this time averted back to Draco, mouth parted slightly and, for a moment, Malfoy thought that she'd been trying to whisper something to him. But then again, the entire room was spinning and the effects of Crabbe's potion was wearing off and Malfoy was not certain of anything really anymore except that he was going to die; this was it, his last living night.

"Yeah, girlie, do tell..."

On the ground he tried to follow her lips. They danced before him desperately, a trickle of crimson blood flowing from the corners of her mouth that made him wince. And she watched him so pleadingly, her eyes up and down his entire body that he was sure was coated in the stuff. And yet, the fog was only slightly lifted, for it framed her obnoxiously pretty face and lifted the whisper that she had so aching tried to pass on to him. He wanted to ask her what she could have possibly been trying to communicate but the task of casualty seemed far too dangerous and he was spinning with feat of reading her lips because perhaps she'd had a clue, a hint, a way out of this mess because that was all he'd needed. One last brilliant idea. _"I'm so sorry, Draco... I'm so sorry..."_

"No?" Bellatrix regained herself and this time the whole world shifted. No longer did she kneel on the stone next to Malfoy, but instead repositioned her torso to straddle him, knees pinning his arms down to the rocks as she dangled her venomous face down to his. And she panted breathily above him, her form diving with her wiry fingers around her deep black dress to produce a small, clear bottle with a triumphant expression and a set of dazzling black pupils. "Well, perhaps Dear Draco can fill us in, then, hm?" And then Hermione was pulled away and her comfort was replaced by the squeeze of Bellatrix's hand on Draco's face, the caress of her calloused fingers stroking him lovingly before raising the vile and thumbing the stopper off easily.

And with his last moments, Draco wished he had never visited Hermione Jean Granger down in the Cellar of the Malfoy Manor. He wished that his father had never left the house with the others and that Snape had told him exactly what to do. He wished he'd become a Death Eater like Crabbe, or even Goyle, who was upstairs someplace and he wondered for a second if they could hear him down there before his aunt forced his chin up and nuzzled the nape of his neck with her panting features. "Open wide."

She had laughed when he hadn't, the tips of her fingers tracing up his jawline to grip there and force his mouth apart rather hastily. But then she tipped the edge of the Veritaserum vile to his lips and forced the entire potion down his throat before clamping her hand over his mouth and his nose, and Draco lie there until he was blue in the face, and then the room was twirling and the leaking of his eyes started up all over again. And he tried to free his wrists out from underneath his aunt's knees, but in the end he couldn't take it anymore and so he gave one last struggle before giving in and swallowing the potion completely.

Then with the trickle came the splash; all at once, a cold feeling of ocean sprang over him and Draco felt like he was being carried by a wave, over and up and _down, down, down_. It was different and somewhat more nauseating than anything Harry and Ron had ever given him and this time it flowed with a bitter, hard sting that made him shiver underneath Beallatrix Lestrange's grasp. For her hand was still trailing on his jaw and her fingers still twirling in his hair and when she saw the glaze of his eyes, she brought up her torso and tilted her head to the side. "Now," came her voice, slow and steady, "would we think that you've been a good boy while we were gone, Draco?"

Something about Draco melted. He didn't want to tell her but the nagging at his temples was just too strong and he had to bite down hard on his tongue just to keep himself from saying no, he hadn't been good; he hadn't been good at all and, in fact, he'd been bad, _they'd have killed him if they knew how bad_. So the answer fumbled from his lips, though he tried to stop it, and eventually it all came tumbling out anyways. "No," he muttered, and then a thick sob wracked his rib cage.

Around him the group of gathered Death Eaters laughed darkly; Bellatrix's face churned into that of a mock pout. "No?" she cooed inquisitively, running her nails down the side of his sweaty neck. "And why's that, nephew?"

Malfoy pressed his lips together and the hum of something forceful yanked at his tongue. He didn't want to say it, but he had to say it because the words were knocking at his teeth and tugging on his mouth. Draco's chest rasped and he slammed his head back against the stone in the process of his struggle, moving his arms uselessly underneath Bellatrix's knees as Hermione's mumbles sounded out sleepily from the background. "Been s-sending letters..." drawled Draco and Bellatrix was nodding, a look of all-knowing etched across her pretty features.

"Aw, Draco, you got yourself a pen-pal?" Her voice seemed to bound off the walls and slam into his head making him dizzy, dizzy, dizzy as he nodded up, down, up, and Bellatrix smiled glisteningly all over again. "And... what's his name?"

He tried to hold it in... really, he did; but then the name was building up within him and it started in his toes before rising up to his shins and his knees, his stomach and his chest. Still, Hermione was calling out to him in the background, her voice loud and strong as she pleaded, "NO! Draco, don't listen to her!" only to be hit in the stomach before crumbling back into herself, unkempt brown hair lulling down over the stone floors so that she almost looked dead in the grip of her captor.

And then he felt the name was it formed in his throat like bile that he could not swallow down; for every second he withheld it, he felt as if he was forgetting to breathe. So, "Harry Potter," he told her and Bellatrix did not look happy anymore but instead looked enraged and her eyes, her deep, dark eyes.. they were nothing but wide, sharp daggers that pressed into him and pieced him senseless.

"What..." she had asked him breathily and he told her again, despite Hermione's screaming because he just couldn't stop it, not even if he tried. Yet Bellatrix only leaned in and her mouth then brushed against Draco's exposed neck as she clawed at the knitting of Draco's sweater, unraveling it. "And what did you write to our Mr. Potter, Draco?"

Malfoy shook his head, messing up the sloppy way in which his blond hair knotted underneath him at his scalp and then a trickle of spit pooled down his mouth because _how could this happen? He'd just been so stupid. _"Wanted," he breathed, gasping between each uttered syllable, "... wanted t-to g-get out." But Bellatrix did not like this answer and neither did the others because then Draco couldn't think, but her hand came down hard against his cheek and he could feel the harsh sting of it when she slapped him so hard that he saw nothing-_ literally nothing_- for a few split seconds. "P-Please..."

Nonetheless, Bellatrix's breaths were heavy and she had pulled herself back, eyes wide against the shadows, for she looked around the Cellar for the gaze of her companions, her tone nothing more than a mere whisper as she said out loud that, "the boy was right... Crabbe's kid... he was telling the truth." And then there was a thick clamor that sounded oddly like a bunch of noises mixed together before Bellatrix was back down in his face and her wand was at his chest and she was looking down at him as if she'd never, ever seen him before. "You sneaky little blood-trading... _Crucio!" _This time when Draco's world burst, it exploded into bits and pieces and he felt the burn of his bones in his core and his heart and his head all alike. But the weight of Bellatrix made it worse, far worse, because she was pushing him down into the stone and he could hear Hermione in the background, every so once in a while spotting her before his eyes flicked back again.

And she begged them to stop but they didn't and Draco felt Bellatrix stumble off of him, shouting, "_Crucio!" _again and his head struck the ground forcefully as he curled achingly into himself, arms wound around his stomach as he blinked into view the sight of Greyback's feet in line with the others as the werewolf bent forward and whisked him up from the ground by his collar. And he was angry, so angry, eyes narrowed and slit like as he spit, "what do we do with him?" and muttered the counter curse that left Draco fumbling forward, forehead clashing into the large man's chest as his knees gave out and he looked wildly for his wand only to realize it was _hopeless, hopeless, hopeless, _because he should have known that he was _never_ going to get it back.

"Are we supposed to wait?" Pettigrew's eyes darted around the lot of them and he made a mousy face as he glanced up towards Yaxley, who ground his fingers into Hermione and pulled back, suggesting something that Draco couldn't hear, not then anyways, because it all sounded like word-vomit, a big pile of nothing. Thus he felt himself melting into Greyback's large chest, arms dangling lifelessly at his side and then he could barely feel anything anymore, only hear; Hermione was choking on something and it was faint, as if distant. He wondered how long they'd keep her alive.

Though still he could not deny the absence of the Man himself. Voldemort. Like a ghost he remained unseen and a cold chill ran down Draco's spine as Fenrir ran his fingers up and down his back in a mocking form of comfort. There was no sign of the Dark Lord, no sign at all. And yet, Draco couldn't help but wonder how long it would take him to arrive until a second horrifying thought crossed his mind; what had become of his parents?

"Not feeling so well are you, there, Draco?" The coo of Bellatrix's voice made Malfoy moan and, under the effects of his aunt's Veritaserum, he just _had _to shake his head no. In fact, he felt like he was fading, like he could barely stand up, and for a moment he was thankful for Fenrir's chest because he thought that without it he'd go crashing into the hardened ground below him. "What about Granger, then?" Bellatrix was asking him and then Fenrir spun him around and it took so much out of him to not be sick all over the werewolf's feet. "Do you think she deserves to feel like you do, Draco?"

He couldn't look at her, couldn't even glance at her. So he mumbled, "no," to the ground and suppressed another sob that pushed readily at the opening between his lips. "Please... don't."

"Couldn't quite catch that," Bellatrix said with a pout. Then she retreated back into the shadows to produce a writhing Hermione, who shifted a set of panicked eyes back and forth from Bellatrix to Fenrir and the others so quickly that she made diamonds with her swift glances. "What do you think Fenrir?"

Once again Draco felt his jaw being lifted and his head was jerked up with a motion that made him glance at her. For he saw nothing but the blackness and Hermione's eyes, wide and tearful, cast away by her hair that sat mangled around her face. And she was breathing so hard, her posture just as slack as his as she watched him, so intent on hoping that perhaps he could think of a way out of their situation... out of the Cellar. But Draco knew better because he had always known better and, why he'd ever thought leaving the Manor was possible was so stupid. He'd should have never filled his head up with such silly ideas anyway. In the end, it all came down to the fact that he'd die there just as he'd been born there, rooted forever with the floorboards.

"I think Draco would be _thrilled_," Greyback answered, but he was staring at Hermione, who continued to watch Malfoy, and _oh God it wasn't supposed to happen like this, _but it was and Greyback's voice was in his ear like a lover's. "And you're the lucky one that's supposed to do it, boy," he purred, "wouldn't you love to see her filthy blood dripping down the walls?" He shook his head in a slight motion that was constricted by the grip that had forced his jaw up in the first place, though Fenrir's smile only spread and he stroked the top of Draco's head before leaning into Hermione and pressing his face next to her neck, drawing in her scent almost sensually. "Your fat friend tells us you've been doing a lot more than planning with your prisoner," he whispered hissingly.

Draco watched Hermione stiffen in Bellatrix's grip and his face heated at once. And Hermione didn't know because how could she know, really? Only Crabbe, who had dove into the confines of Draco's dreams, had known and now Malfoy was certain that he really had never been so humiliated in his entire life. "You've _dreamt_ about her, haven't you, boy?" snapped Greyback again, and his yellow eyes devoured him hungrily. Then he trailed his hand down Draco's stomach and his fingers meant to pop off the button of his trousers but, even in a daze, Draco saw that one coming and he lifted up his elbow to slam it so hard into Greyback's torso that the man howled upon releasing him, sending the blond stumbling over to the center of the Cellar. "_Fucking brat_! _Crucio!"_

When the second bout of the spell hit him, Draco fell to the ground in fractions. With a grunt, he hit the floor by Hermione's feet and the tremors that wracked his body made him woozy all over again. And Fenrir's foot came crashing into his guts, but Draco kept his mouth screwed shut, thankful that the pervert had forgotten about undoing his pants. But it was the question that had overtaken his head and he tried in vain not to let the answer slip from his lips because then his whole body was screaming _no, no, no, no, NO! _And, of course, Hermione would have no idea what he was on about; for surely she had been under the innocent impression that Draco had just sending out her letters...

Still, he could barely hear himself as he jerked. But his skull brushed by the soles of Hermione's diry shoes until she was crying out, her voice nothing more than a mumble in Draco's weary head. But Yaxley's voice slipped over all that madness. "Do you dream about her, Draco?"

Malfoy pressed his head against the crook of his arm, and he didn't want to look at her. "Yes," he heard himself admit, though he was muffed by the skin that he had his face held into. And another jolt slipped through his body, for when he cried out, he had to bite down hard onto his clenched fist. But then Hermione stopped crying and everything was silent except for the occasional bursts of laughter from the Death Eaters; still, he didn't want to see her, not anymore, and he was certain that he never, ever wanted to see her again.

"Yes?" asked Yaxley, and Fenrir had still not released the curse.

But Draco couldn't take it anymore and he released his knuckles from his mouth, blinking his eyes to find that his skull was bleeding- a dark, red pool beneath his white-blond head. _"Yes!_ Yes! Please... s-stop!" But they didn't and Draco felt another kick slam into him, this time sending more blood from his mouth to taint the stone and dribble down his front.

"And what do you do with this Mudblood bitch in your dreams, Draco?" Fenrir asked again, though he'd turned to Hermione and drew his hand on her cheek and when Bellatrix pushed her down, she was once again staring down into Draco's face. However, this time she did not cry out for them to stop. Rather, something about her seemed numb, fuzzy, and unable. Her mouth hung open and her eyes searched him wetly. Yet her panting breaths were obvious and she seemed almost struck, as if she couldn't believe that he'd dreamt about her at all. Then Fenrir put on a voice that was vile and grotesque, taunting for the point of pleasure. And then he was asking, "what goes on in those rancid dreams of yours? Do you kiss her?"

Draco pressed his lips together. An unwilling sob slipped from his throat and then he was nodding so fiercely that he thought his head might come loose from his neck in the process.

In the background, Peter Pettigrew wheezed a chuckle of odd amusement. Fenrir's lip curled. "Do you _touch_ her?"

His mind was filled with images of Hermione Jean Granger and her smile in the shower as she brushed the strands of his sticky wet hair from his eyes before leaning into him and allowing him to bury his head into the crook of her neck. He tried to push the images away, yet the more he withheld the answer, the more he thought of the ways in which he'd pictured her beneath him as he took out the frustration of his attraction on her, pinning her onto the mattress of his bed and running his hand through her hair before pulling down the zipper of her perfect pink jacket to expose her baby blue bra and the stretch of flat flesh that lie underneath it.

Did he touch her? Oh God, the million dollar question. _Did he touch her?_ "Yes," he finally told them, because not telling them now was just so hard. The pull of the answer was far too strong and now he was much too weak, submissive beneath the hold of the curse that humiliated and held him mercilessly. "Yes. P-Please..."

When the spell was lifted, Draco felt a huge weight fall from his shoulders. He gasped and sputtered as if he'd been held underwater and, because Hermione was silent, he only wrapped his arms around his head and pressed his body tighter within himself, so, so tired. "Where do you touch her, Draco?" pressed the wolf, and he overstepped Malfoy's weary body to coil around Hermione, who didn't even flinch this time; rather, she stared only intently down at Draco, eyes wide in disbelief. "Do you touch her here?" Long fingernails trailed along the outline of Hermione's lips and Draco couldn't help himself; he nodded as a stream of fresh tears rolled down his face.

Then Fenrir's hand slipped down and he was cupping the space at her torn jacket and Draco felt his face redden with anger and embarrassment and he wanted to _kill_ him. He couldn't move, not even if he tried. "Do you touch her here?"

Malfoy almost didn't recognize the pitiful whimper that escaped from his throat as the Vertaserum manipulated his every move. Hermione wasn't even struggling and it was as if she didn not even notice the hand that was upon her. Instead, she kept her eyes averted to Draco, who wanted to disappear completely. "Yes."

Greedily, Fenrir sniffed in the scent of Hermione's greasy scalp and the world seemed to whirl all around Draco Malfoy. He watched with a slow sense of registration as Greyback moved his hand down from Hermione's chest to her stomach, past her hips, to the spot between her legs then cocked Draco's chin up by placing the tip of his foot underneath his aching head. "And what about here?" he asked, forcing him to look. "Do you ever touch her here?"

On the ground in the blackness, Draco wished that they'd end him. He prayed for the Killing Curse so that he could vanish and succumb to the darkness, but the sound of the Maniacs around him kept the possibility from a reality; they were having far too much fun. "Yes," he heard himself tell them defeatedly and Hermione let out a breath that she'd been holding in for a very long time, for her entire body shook and she bit down on her lower lip shrinking even lower into Bellatrix's tight grasp.

And he was going to be sick, could feel the rise of the bile that crept up in his throat the very moment the third wild kick rattled his ribcage.

"You're pathetic." One of them, though Draco couldn't see who, had spit near his face and he opened his eyes to see nothing but one large shadow, inches away from his nose. "Get up," it told him.

He tried to tell it that he couldn't, because he knew he couldn't, but he made a noble effort to lift up his arm and, positioning it against the ground, lulled his torso into a rather unimpressive half-lift. Yet, it shook and then he was down again, onto the ground in a colliding sort of sense, with his chin against the rock and Bellatrix's feet in his woozy hindsight. He sputtered out nonsense to explain himself and only managed to get away with words that blended together, speaking in an entirely new language that propelled blood from his lips and snot from his nose. But then he was leaking all over and Fenrir was far too quick, for he sneered as he rushed forward to seize the front of Draco's collar and lift him to his feet to watch him sway, despite the weak attempt he made in trying to throw a punch. When he missed, he wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole. He was granted no such luck.

Instead, he wobbled with the effort, his fist caught mid-swing by Fenrir who, egged on by the slip, pulled him forward and shoved him _hard_ against the wall. And then someone was saying, "_Imperio,"_ and Draco had never felt more empty in his entire life because, now, something like a big, black hole was forming unexpectedly in the pit of his chest as he _faded, faded, faded._

And then he heard everything as if a command; for his head was nothing but a blank slate, filled with nothingness until it wasn't anymore and that was fine because the worry of the night was gone, only to be replaced with snickers and jeers and _forces. _No one had to say a word, but Draco just knew, and he slouched away from the stone wall that he'd been forced into to stare blankly into the blackness, though everything seemed morphed and fuzzy as if he had been drugged all over again, but this time he heard voices like a demon's and they told him to move forward, so _he did, he did, he did. _Nonetheless, he was in the middle of the Cellar before he'd known it, barely registering the way in which Hermione's mouth moved like a spectacle, though more aware of her eyes and the way they twisted and turned like sequins and, really, they looked beautiful like that, despite the tears that hung over them.

What she was shouting was a mystery because something in his head made her voice a lot higher, stripping the sound of the sobs that wracked her body against Bellatrix Lestrange's altogether like a filter; and that was okay because he wasn't in pain anymore and, as far as he could tell, neither way she. Thus, he stood and allowed the shadows of the night to close in on him, hooded figures with matching smiles, and sparkling eyes that rushed all over him and ran their hands through his hair, taking pride in telling him so clearly, "you've been quite the bad boy so far, but you're going to be a good boy for us tonight, aren't you, Draco?" and he was because they told him to and he just wanted to do _anything_ that they told him to.

And he blinked back up at them with droopy eyes like a child and they'd laughed, though he wasn't sure why. Still, they tangled their fingers in his hair and whisked him around, back into the Blackness and there she was- Hermione- no longer held against Bellatrix, but instead leaning against the wall with her back held against it. And her eyes were wide like saucers, space-ships even, her mouth still forming the words that he could not hear. Yet something told him it was unimportant, despite the way he could only _just_ make out the syllables of his name as they tumbled from her lips, every so often picking up, "Draco... fight it," before deciding, that couldn't be it; he had nothing to fight. He just felt so numb.

But when the yanking feeling of urgency sent him stumbling forward, he did so, pulling himself across the open space of the Cellar just to touch her. And he barely even registered the way she flinched, noticing only the soft smoothness of her cheek and how it felt beneath the palm of his hand, for the world seemed to consist of the two of them only now, not even Death Eaters or Dark wizards or Death himself. And he was looking into her eyes, confused and curious, drinking in the way that her panicked expression kept her rooted there; and she was so tense beneath him as she tried to whisper frantically in his ear, though her effort only made his knees weak with the way in which her breath caressed the nape of his neck, for someone said, "tell her it's going to be alright," and paused, blinking, to look into her eyes.

"It's going to be alright," he told her.

Hermione's body jerked and she shook her head so much so that her hair fell over her shoulders and in her eyes that were red, and bloodshot, and wet. He smoothed a hand up underneath her eye and wiped away the tears that lined her cheek there when a swift desire to smell her washed over him and he glanced up at her one last time before diving his own fingers into the end of her hair and bringing his nose to the edges. And she smelled amazing, which was strange because she definitely hadn't washed, but something about her bloomed roses and leaked pollen and ran thick, like honey. Then he pulled away and his own eyes started to well up, but then in a moment he regained himself, as if crying was not supposed to happen, so it didn't and it stopped before it had even really started.

But then he was staring at her face, her horrified face, and he was certain he had never felt the desire for a woman more than he had in his entire life. And he wanted to kiss her, though he'd never wanted to kiss her like that before, but something now was different because everything in the entire universe seemed to want him to kiss her now, too. Still a voice in his head whispered, "_do it, Draco," _and he loosened his grip from her hair to touch her lips, lightly, as if taking his time in the matter, brushing against the dryness there as he watched her so intently. "_Now."_

So he did and he leaned in slow, without thinking, really, so that his hands trickled up her neck and at the base of her very skull. But his lips were on hers, so gently and submissively, as if he wasn't quite certain of himself in the long run at all. He shut his eyes and moved against her and still, Hermione tasted so sweet, _so unbelievably fantastic_, yet she froze beneath him, tiny muffled repetitions of the word, "_stop_", vibrating from her own mouth as he worked his back against hers. But that did not concern him then because he was certain that, if he'd lasted long enough, she'd give in with him, too; the voices were telling him over and over and he couldn't have even stopped if he'd tried. Then he slipped his tongue into her mouth and she gave a timid little struggle before freeing her hand and slapping him, _hard_, across the face.

Draco saw the flash of stars and something snapped. He fumbled back away from her and his hand was at the spot where she'd struck him, a pulsating feeling of pain rushing through him in a draining sense that would have absolutely _humiliated_ him, had he been in the right mind. But Hermione was panting and she was watching him so fearfully too, her eyes darting behind him to the Death Eaters in the back that he couldn't see, though she was silent besides the breaths that overtook her, _so silent, silent, silent, silent, silent._

He didn't hear the laughter as it started out from behind him, but it was there and it whirled around like a hurricane through his head. "Poor, Draco. Looks like she doesn't like you, then," sneered a voice and he felt his face redden, still watching Hermione with his hand on his face like an idiot, but he couldn't take it down; it was stuck there. "But the heart wants what the heart wants," it insisted. "And you're not going to let some filthy little _Mudbood_ reject you that easily, are you now, Draco?"

He couldn't help it, but his hand shot off his face and he leaned forward again, this time slamming it against Hermione's mouth and pinning her against the wall with his spare. When she bit down on his fingers, he couldn't help but growl and he dug his nails deeper into her wrists before removing his palm from her lips and pressing it, instead, under her jaw at her throat. And he no longer wanted to kiss her passionately, but instead wanted to end her brutally, so he shoved his mouth up against hers so hard that her head crashed back against the stone and her legs wobbled uselessly underneath her.

And he felt his hand creep down to the button on her pants to snap it open, a swift and quick motion that revealed to him just the top of her underwear. But, despite his rage, he was harder than he'd ever been in his entire life, though he wasn't sure why because Hermione was crying and sputtering and her legs were awkward and angular beneath her, pointed in as if she would have rather _died_ than have him touch her there. But he couldn't help the anger that rushed throughout his entire being because something was telling him that anger was what he was _supposed _to be feeling; so he was bitter because this wasn't supposed to be happening. He was a Mafoy. Malfoys weren't supposed to be rejected. Malfoy's were supposed to take what they'd wanted. And a voice in the background told him to do so.

"_Tell her how you dream about her at night_," whispered a voice, though he wasn't exactly sure that was a good idea.

"I dream about you at night," he told her, still, his voice rough, and harsh, and bitter. He spat the words at her because they had not told him not to be angry, so he was still angry and he dug his nails deeper into her flesh, drawing blood. Something instructed him to kiss her again and he did, forcefully, almost biting down on her lips as he shoved his tongue into her mouth.

"_Tell her what you do to her in your dreams,"_ cooed the voice, and he really didn't want her to know.

Nonetheless, he was allowed the relaxation of being calm and the voices permitted him to drop the anger that had built up without explanation in his chest. Thus, then he felt himself on the verge of tears, so vulnerable and pitiful. Again laughter echoed around his head but he only saw Hermione and he pressed his forehead against hers, whispering in her ear so if she were about to break underneath him. "In my dreams," he breathed, voice in fractions as if he were in the middle of sobbing, "I pin you to the bed, and you kiss me on the neck."

"Stop this," Hermione begged and her eyes scanned him up and down. "Stop this." But he couldn't stop because the voice had not permitted him to. Rather, some unseen force lifted his hands to her face and he kissed her again, moaning into her mouth as his knees threatened to turn to jelly underneath him. She forced her lips shut against his and a shudder ran down his spine.

_"Now tell her how she makes you feel."_

Draco's posture softened. He wasn't angry anymore; no one had told him to be. Instead, he kept his fingers pinning her body down and pressed his head against the nape of her neck, nuzzling into her like a puppy, or a child. "Y-You make me feel like I have to rethink everything."

"_What does she make you rethink, Draco?" _

A sob wracked his body and he bit down on his lower lip, burying himself deeper into the crook of her neck. "I don't know who I am at all anymore, and its all your fault, and sometimes I wish I could do it... sometimes I wish I could kill you."

Draco felt Hermione's wrists beneath his. He'd drawn blood and he hated the way that it trickled down his fingers and intermixed with the cuts on his knuckles. But he didn't let go and instead felt the way in which Hermione bent her head down low to his and tried to whisper into his ear. But she shook when she said spoke out loud, so soothingly and terrified as she tried to communicate to him. Every word tumbled from her mouth in a shattered and broken sort of manner, and she stood only an inch or two shorter than him as she raised herself to breathe into his ear. "Draco, listen to me..." interrupted Hermione, but he had to say it; they'd told him to say it. "Listen to my voice... please."

He wasn't told to listen. So he didn't.

"You make me feel curious," he whispered, and he grew weaker and weaker against her slender, shaking body. "You make me feel unsure." Then he wasn't sure he could hold it in anymore and he was crying, really crying, as he kept his face held against her shoulder. "I just wanted to know," he said, trying with great difficulty to explain himself. "I promise, I just wanted to know."

Nonetheless, a heavy growl sounded out from behind him and Draco's head spun. There were no more voices, but instead nothing but his head in Hermione's neck, his face flooded with tears, and the feeling that Fenrir Greyback was breathing down his neck. But he was only granted with the rush of acknowledgement for a few split seconds before something grabbed the back of his head and tugged him back down into unconsciousness. Thus, his body slipped down the arched front of Hermione, and he landed in a heap at her feet, safe within the confines of ignorance, yet all the more gone as the footsteps of the Death Eaters retreated behind him.

And they called back to the girl, who was standing, though just barely- her back against the rock with her eyes cast down at the blond who looked deceased and unmoving underneath her. But they said, "sweet dreams," and peered through the rod iron that were the gates by the stairs, vanishing into the blackness of the steps and locking the door of the Cellar behind them, g_one, gone, gone, gone, gone._

So the girl slipped to the ground when her legs couldn't support her anymore, and her eyes found the figure of Draco Malfoy at her feet; for he looked like the others, just like the others, like the Muggle girls that she had shared the Cellar with for as long as she could remember. But they had left him with her, perhaps to die or to wake up confused... her third, and permanent guest.

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**Vonne: **You know what to do!


	22. Damned

**Vonne:** I'm so sorry about the lack of updating I've been doing lately. And I'm so sorry to say that, once again, I am running low on time. I just wanted to say thank you to everyone that reviewed the last chapter and I really wanted to get this next chapter out. I hope you all forgive me! Anyway, a big thank you to: **Carl**, **LivelyMcBrighten**, **Psychic City**, **McLanna**, **LE Candeh**, **PrivateNites**, **Naruto's girl**, **Sniffybeagle**, **Isabella120**, **Tragic Slytherin**, **Corey Fitzwilliam**, **blackandred17**, **Stupidamericanidoms91**, **AlleeseJ**, **Forbiddenluv**, **Flamingo174**, **Sarah**, and **Manitou2422**.

I really wanted to thank you all personally this time around, but I have to get going tonight. Please know, however, that I absolutely loved all of your reviews. They were all so special and amazing; I'm sure I had my nights made with each of them. Please don't hate me for my lack of responses. Know that they are being red and appreciated greatly! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

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_"In the afterlife, you could be headed for the serious strife. Now you make the scene all day, but tomorrow there'll be Hell to pay."_

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**Chapter Twenty-Two**  
**Damned**

Hermione Jean Granger had always been certain of many of things, but what she was not certain of was whether or not Draco Malfoy would ever wake up again.

He was lying on his side on the stone, blond head pitched in her lap, and his breathing came slow- _too slow_- for Hermione to be anything close to certain. Yet she had barely even registered the way in which she had spent the past hour tending to him; with her fingers entangled in his hair, Hermione offered the unconscious Malfoy words of useless encouragement, far too pitiful without a wand to do anything more than shift him from his back so that he did not choke on his sick, were he to become so. And every so often she had smoothed back his hair to take in the sleeping account of his face, lifeless and unknowing in his unconsciousness, to pull him closer to the wall, further upon her legs with the fear that, were he to get too close to the Muggle bodies in the corner, he too would become another corpse. Just like them.

But he looked so innocent in his subconsciousness- childlike- as if had never really been the sneering Slytherin that had tried her, Harry, and Ron year after relentless year. Though, she wasn't too sure he had been the same Draco, anyway... not really. And though she didn't dwell too much on the specifics, she was slightly content with the notion that _something, _whatever that something had been, had changed about Draco Malfoy; and that alone was enough to make her curious. Though, while she sat and mulled over the possibilities of her tender actions, she mindlessly brushed her palm across the flesh of his face, soothing him slowly as she whispered gently to him, "please wake up."

Malfoy gave a miserable groan and buried himself deeper into her lap. He slipped slightly on the stone, bringing his knees up closer to his chest, and then, barely audible, whispered the breath of her name. Hermione froze. It had been the second time she had heard her name uttered within the confines of someone else's sleep; though when Ronald Weasley had done it, she had felt a sense of triumph over Lavander Brown's turmoil. Granted, this time, she was vaguely uncertain as to _what_ she should think. And her hand stilled on Draco's head, teeth barred into her lower lip so much so that it hurt. But trying to forget the Veritaserum-laced words of Draco Malfoy was almost impossible and all the while, every limb on her body that he'd touched, despite having been _Imperioed_ to, seemed to prick and poke her mercilessly. Thus she brought herself forward and stifled the shudder that passed through her, pressing her hand more forcefully against the cup of Draco's cheek and drumming her fingers across the spit-encrusted surface. "Malfoy, please... please wake up."

"_Mmm," _Draco whined and he scrunched his face up like a rabbit, lifting his palm to swat at her hand and shove it from his face. Nonetheless, despite the unconscious strike, Draco's face relaxed rather instantly and, before Hermione could really take in the falling of his features, he worked his expression into that of immense worry, mumbling, "... don't hurt her," with a slur that was muffled against the trousers that covered the bulk of her thigh.

And Hermione was not too sure that she had even heard him properly, pausing in the darkness to blink down curiously back at him, her breath low and unsteady as she heard him dream. But he was dreaming about _her,_ as he'd said he had, though there was no hint of seduction in his voice. Rather, Hermione picked up the tone of gentle urgency, reeling at the way his fingers clawed into her legs as if he were clinging on to her for dear life. And she realized that he was not dreaming of wooing her, but instead _saving_ her, for the words that she thought had tumbled from his mouth were, "don't hurt her, please, don't hurt her," and more than ever she wanted him to stop.

"Malfoy..." Hermione breathed, and she left her hand trailing at the pointed edges of his jaw. Still, he turned away from her just slightly, exposing the harsh gashes that lined his neck from the claws of Greyback, deep purple bruises that matched the one at his left eye, printed all the more obviously into his bloody, blued wrists. "Malfoy," she begged, and his sweater was crusted with the texture of dried, red blood, "wake up."

When she laced her fingers in with his, she squeezed and his palm felt cold as she pressed her eyes shut, muttering a quick prayer underneath her broken breath. With her thumb she brushed the side of his chilly limb, her eyes searching the blackness behind her lids as she ground her spine into the stone wall behind her. And she begged for him to wake up, for she didn't want to be alone, and she couldn't let him die, for he hadn't let her die, either. So the moments passed like hours and she sighed into the stale air that hung before her like drapes, her legs numb underneath the head of the blond that she held so bloody possessively. And then one last time she tried, "Malfoy..."

The hand that gripped Hermione' squeezed so gently that she had barely even registered the action. Yet, then the head on her lap turned slightly and, miserable, another moan sounded out through the Cellar. But she was certain of it now, so much so that she could not possibly manage movement, save for the jolting way in which her brown eyes snapped open into the dark scene ahead of her. And Malfoy's gray eyes were wet and unblinking, his expression soft with the woes of his uncertainty; fingers still interlaced in between hers, he searched her face for an answer.

"Malfoy..."

His eyes slipped down from her complexion to the hand that held onto his and for a moment he left her linger there, eyes scanning the Cellar as if he had never seen the place before in his entire life. Nonetheless, when he was fully able to take in the sight of the darkened room around him, Draco whisked his hand away from Hermione's so fast that she was certain she'd heard a bone pop. "What happened?" he demanded, still struck down on her legs and Hermione wasn't sure if he had been able to move much at all.

"You should try and rest..." Hermione began, but Draco's complexion flinched and he glanced away from the surrounding Cellar to stare daggers into her eyes. "You probably aren't feeling too well-"

Malfoy's voice shook. Across his face, blond hair sat in an unsightly mess. "W-Why... Why am I in the Cellar?"

And Hermione thought of one hundred ways that she could break it nicely to him. "I don't think you should be moving around too much," she advised and Draco's body shuddered. He lifted his head just several inches from Hermione's lap and gave a pained moan. When he opened his gray eyes again, they were positively _swimming. _

"What happened?" he asked again, though this time his voice was hard with frustration while, at the same time, pained with worry. His entire visage had drained of color and, though Hermione had not thought it to be possible, his face faded into an entirely new level of pale. He looked absolutely transparent, as if he were deciding whether or not he were going to be ill, and Hermione considered not telling him. And she was certain she wouldn't even be able to get the words out, even if she tried. So, like a fish out of water, she opened and closed her mouth once, the words still forming absently in her head; he looked so _scared,_ so _helpless,_ so absolutely _miserable._

So the girl chewed her lower lip and she glanced away from Draco to lock eyes with the floor, muttering silently into the stone, "they found out," and her voice cracked just a bit as she finished.

And Draco froze when she stopped, his back straight and stiff in her lap, his eyes stilled with the shock of the news; but he almost looked dead, absolutely dead, as if his heart had stopped its beating right there and then. Then his lips moved slowly, a soft and quiet whisper emitting from his throat in the form of, "they found...?" before dying out into a collection of broken breaths that made his entire body shake all over again. However, the moment of Draco's serenity ended rather suddenly and he lunged, despite the pain, form Hermione's lap to frantically search the blackened space as if he'd hardly even believed it to be the truth himself.

Still, he ignored the way in which Hermione protested, a slight gasp sounding out in her direction as she leaned a hand out towards him only to miss his shoulder by inches. Yet he sputtered up in what looked like a peculiar half-sit, his hair stuck to the dried spit that lined the edge of his cheek. And Hermione was certain she had never seen someone shake so much in her entire life; his entire body did so visibly and the gulp that he downed was loud, rough, and quivering. Nonetheless, it took him several moment before he broke out in a pant, his eyes finding the lumpy outlines of the Muggle girls in the corner before clamping his teeth down hard on his lower lip and finding the iron bars at the foot of the rocky staircase.

He did not break the gaze when Hermione spoke again, her voice low and tender as she carefully put together her every word. "Voldemort," she begun, and Draco winced at the name, "wasn't there."

Yet his eyes still glistened and he seemed to glance down his body to scrutinize his feet, which looked perfectly awkward as the stretched out at an array of worrisome angles. "How?" he rasped.

Hermione knew instantly; she'd heard Bellatrix scream it through her head all over again. Draco had been writing to Potter. Crabbe had turned him in. It was over. It was over. It was over. Then Hermione felt faint all over again and Draco looked as if he really didn't want to know. "Your aunt found the letters," she told him finally, when an entirely new look of self-loathing washed over his face. And she considered the way his features twisted to resemble the sick way that he might have looked if she'd stabbed him. Every horrified flicker was melting down his front like a fountain of thick honey. "They used Veritaserum. You probably shouldn't..."

Malfoy's eyes fell to the empty depths of his pocket; they'd taken his wand. He felt the blood, cold and stale, on his chest beneath the knitting of his sweater. His ankle felt almost nonexistent and he blinked to the spot at the end of his leg, just to check if he'd even had a foot there anymore. Yet images like film flashes popped into his head and he received the scene of the blackened Cellar through his own eyes on the ground, wrists pinned under the jagged knees of his aunt as she stroked the side of his face and asked him, "_have you been a naughty boy while we were gone, Draco?"_

A rather violent shudder trailed down the length of Malfoy's spine. Gray eyes snapped back up to Hermione, disbelieving. "Veritaserum?" he asked, praying that she would not confirm it. But Hermione nodded, and Draco's chest fell, and his eyes grew wet when he pressed a bit further. "... I t-told them?"

"You didn't know what you were saying-" Hermione objected, but Draco squeezed his eyes shut and he tried to remember, but only envisioned flashes of light, and screams, and shadows that took the shape of monsters like demons in the pitch black darkness.

Though he did not open his eyes when he spoke, Draco tried to steady his voice to that of a flat whisper. "Then what?" he demanded, but his brows were furrowed and he looked like he was trying to get up but he couldn't, not now, because Hermione wasn't even sure how he'd managed to wake up in the first place.

"Unforgivables," Hermione told him and Draco suppressed a sob in the center of his chest. "_Crucio,"_ she murmured. "... _Imperio."_

Draco Malfoy's heart skipped a beat. In an instant, he flung himself up from Hermione's lap and, for a moment, she thought he might be sick. Nonetheless, Malfoy exhaled shakily into the darkness, his eyes wide and horrified, as he if couldn't possibly imagine something that he could not remember for himself. And as he considered all of the possible things he could have done without even realizing it, his body felt numb and his posture fell slack. Pain surged through his entire being and, only barely managing to hold himself upright, Draco directed his eyes back to Hermione and said without hesitation, "tell me."

But Hermione Granger stalled and Draco noted the way in which her flesh reddened, eyes still avoiding his wearily. She was hiding something. "I think," she said, a bit shocked from his instant movement, "you should lie back down. You don't look well enough to be-"

Though Draco was shaking his head and he watched Hermione intently before managing to open his mouth again. His face looked heavy with concentration and something rather large was stuck there in his scratchy throat. "Granger, so help me God_..." _The very moment Draco had raised his voice, an excruciating demeanor passed over him and he winced, blinking confusedly down at this stomach to notice the pool of blood that sat readily at his trousers. And he was a complete mess, and absolute eye-sore, yet when he readjusted his eyes to find Hermione's again, he did not look any less determined.

"You've hit your head," Hermione added, more than desperate to avoid the conversation. Thus, she returned Malfoy's gaze and shifted her legs so that she sat on them in a mockery of a kneel. Shifting, she lifted her hand and placed it gently on Malfoy's shoulder, telling him once again in a voice that was soothing, "just lie down and I'll have a look at you." However, Draco would have none of it. Hermione saw his features morph from horrified to angry, to absolutely livid and, frustrated, he made a swift lunge towards her. And it was as if he'd forgotten that he didn't have his wand, though it didn't matter much because the fast move had Draco down within moment and he managed only to sputter forward and collide with Hermione's chest, forehead buried deep down into her shoulder; he gasped at the unexpected pressure.

Then a sullen moan escaped his throat and Hermione stiffened as a flash of the way he'd kissed her rushed through her mind before fading away tauntingly. She looked around the Cellar, riddled with unease, and then breathed in the iron scent of Malfoy; he really was bleeding profusely. Against her being, Hermione could feel Draco's forehead wrinkle. And then he asked, "what happened to me?" with a mumble, though his voice was laced with defeat, for he did not struggle to lift himself from Hermione's shoulder. Rather, he let himself be supported by her, pressing his lean weight back at her shoulder and ignoring the constant wash of nausea that swept over him.

So Hermione said, "here," and helped him to the ground in fractions so that, soon enough, he was lying down on the stone, staring in a petrified daze back at the ceiling. She took note of the uncomfortable air that surrounded him, his face reddening as she murmured a quick apology and lifted his arms into the air over his head, glancing back up at him shyly before reaching down and taking a light grip of the end of his bloody blue sweater. She waited until she received his nervous nod and then lifted, only to find herself staring back down at the large slits that crossed his chest. And crimson blood seeped out from every angle, running down the front of his pale white skin, and almost invasively so. They disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers and resurfaced at the top of his neck, and staring was all Hermione could do to keep from being sick.

"I've been practicing wandless magic..." Hermione muttered, then. And she had, for she'd figured it best within the days she'd spent camping out with Harry and Ron. Yet, a slight blush crept over her cheeks and she quickly regained herself, explaining hastily, "I'm not very good at it." But Draco didn't say anything and instead tried to piece together what it was that she wasn't telling him in the lines of her face, so Hermione averted her eyes and steadied her hands over Draco's bloody stomach, pushing out the thoughts of anxiety from her buzzing head. And from her mouth poured the words that he'd heard from Professor Snape, song-like and melodic, her brows furrowed in concentration as she said almost soothingly, _"vulnera sanentur..." _

And at the first utterance, his blood sunk back into the gashes; the second knotted each broken patch of flesh back together like bits of a broken puzzle. When Hermione had finished repeating the spell three times over, Draco was surprised to find himself staring down at an impressively clean front and an equally as shocked Hermione. "There," she said, trying to mask her astonishment. "Now, if I could just get to the ones on your back..."

But Malfoy was adamant and he shook his head, refusing to roll over. "Not until you tell me," he breathed, and he let his hands remain above his head, though Hermione was not truly certain he had the capability to move them. When he swallowed, she heard it with immense force. "I want to know, I do. I want to know."

Hermione let out a breath, lowering her eyes back at him in a form of swift sympathy. And Draco seemed to catch the notion, his gray eyes cat up with inquiry as he surveyed Hermione's stature, only to hear her scoot forward and help him into a seated position, her voice slowly sliding down the nape of his neck as she told him, "I'm going to lift up the back of your sweater." And her permitted her to do so, for her was too weak to refuse. Then when a slow wash of extreme coldness rushed over his exposed skin, Draco found himself shuddering and leaning further into her, his head stuffed somewhere between the space of Hermione's fluffy brown hair, and her pink jacketed shoulder.

Feeling somewhat embarrassed by his inability to maintain an appropriate posture, he informed her, "I have every right to know, you know." He winced when he heard Hermione start the Healing Spell again; blood flowed back into the openings of his skin as if it had been sucked back through a drain. Then, a bit more frustrated, clarified, "I have every right to know what happened when it involves me, for your bloody _information."_

So she said it in a whisper and, this time, it riddled him to his very core. "You kissed me."

But Malfoy wasn't even certain that he'd heard her right because then things came to him like a dream- a vivid dream- and his mind soared through images of himself as he stepped sullenly forward, his eyes on Hermione as the jeers of some unseen group cackled behind him in the background. But that couldn't be real because that was a dream, another fantasy. He hadn't actually kissed Hermione Jean Granger. He couldn't have. "I... I d-didn't..." he started, but only froze into Hermione's body, feeling her repeat the spell for a second time as he focused now on her words instead of the pain.

"It was after they'd drugged you," she told him, "you told them... some things."

"What about?" Draco asked faintly.

"Dreaming," Hermione responded and he could feel her heart beat faster beneath her chest so he stiffened. He couldn't have said _those_ things. Could never have said _those_ things...

And Draco wasn't entirely certain how to speak properly, for words floated like birds in his head. So he shot down the ones that he could register, slowly beginning to succumb to the inevitable. "They... h-heard..."

"It's nothing to be ashamed about," Hermione started, cutting him off in a way that showed how blatantly _nervous _she was. Then she concluded the spell and, fuming, Malfoy pulled away before she could even tug his sweater back down.

"Nothing to be _ashamed about_?" Malfoy found himself yelling, hoarse though, though he couldn't place why. His pale face had turned a bright shade of tomato red and his blond hair was slashed against his face in an outright uproar. "Think you could be a bit more fucking _specific!_?" With that, Draco shoved himself from Hermione's support completely, his posture faltering as he struggled rather obviously to collect himself.

And anyway, Hermione Granger was an outright _horrible _liar. Malfoy could see it in her eyes... _her lovely, caring, gentle eyes_... _no_! He needed to think and right now, he thought that he'd hated her for beating around the bush. Leave it to a Gryffindor to avoid being blatant... he only wished he could figure her out like he could girls like Pansy Parkinson. "You told them that you dream about... me. The Death Eaters just had fun with that... that's all. Please, Draco, you're not suited to be writhing about like this!"

But Draco's eyes were wide with fear and this time he paled, almost bloody translucent. He saw images of Hermione with her back pressed up against the wall, could almost physically feel her skin beneath his shivering fingertips. Then he saw the flash of his own torso, held there against hers. And her eyes were wide with fear as his hand ran down the length of his body to snap boldly at the front button on her trousers. "No!" He heard himself whisper, more to himself than anyone else. And he ignored Hermione as he scooted back, clad against the wall opposite her with his knees stretched outwards and his hands lightly on the stone beneath him. But he watched the emptiness before his eyes and felt his body squirm with discomfort. He remembered the very top of her protruding underwear.

"I didn't...?" he asked before falling short, too afraid to even finish the impossible sentence. And for a moment Hermione did not even seem to understand him; her eyes flashed with uncertainty as she considered the numb state of him there, lifeless like some discarded rag doll. Didn't _what, didn't what? _But _oh God, he just hoped she didn't make him say it. _

_"_Didn't...?" Hermione started, regarding him slowly. His eyes flicked up towards her in a begging sort of sense because this was something he'd had to know. Something he'd needed to know, for all he could manage was a quick flash of fumbling with her button. He wondered in horror how far it had gone, how far he'd went; because if it had gone to where he'd always dreamt would go, he wished that they'd have killed him. Then Hermione's gaze widened with understanding. A hasty blush crept over her cheeks. "Oh _God," _he sputtered, looking as if she understood his mortification, "no!"

But Draco's posture receded and he leaned his back against he stone, pressing his head to it, too. He stared blankly at the ceiling, almost praying that it would fall down and end him, then and there. And Hermione's unnecessary sputtering did not help him at all, for she stammered with each word, her every breath echoing around the Cellar, dream-like in his head. "I thought Fenrir... Fenrir might have," Hermione continued, remaining put on the stone. She seemed to have forgotten all about Draco's injuries but, to be fair, he had a long while ago as well. "But they didn't make you- when you _tried _to, I jabbed you. They didn't go any further with... oh God, Draco, it wasn't really you..."

"So then _tell_ me!" Malfoy retorted, head snapping up so quickly that pain spread around the lower half of his neck. "Tell me if you're so fucking adamant! How far did it bloody go?"

Hermione stiffened. She stared carefully at him for a long while before she nodded and averted her eyes to the ground by her outstretched feet. "You kissed me," she repeated embarrassedly, "you just kissed me, really." However, Draco's expression only contorted and Hermione back-peddled before starting over. "It wasn't... you... your hands were in my hair. You used y-your... tongue and you snapped the button on my trousers." Hermione's cheeks burned; then she shook her head minutely. "The rest is nonsense, really..."

"And the dreams?" Draco asked, his voice hitching up with what Hermione guessed to be worry, humiliation, and fear.

And then she hesitated, still havering. "I don't t-think I remember what you said _exactly_..."

"Say it!" Draco was yelling now and Hermione didn't want to tell him. She could barely even get the words out of her mouth on her own because everything seemed to taste foreign, as if she could no longer remember how to speak them at all. So when Hermione shook her head, Draco's eyes flashed and he bit through his fury with ammunition of his own. "Coward!" he called back at her, leaning away from the wall and Hermione could see that it hurt him, but found herself surprised when he pulled forward towards her anyways. The gray in his eyes swam with the threat of tears and she could see the menace in his words as he spat them so fierily at her. "You filthy little Mudblood _coward_! You're too bloody weak!" he challenged, "can't even get the words out, can you?"

But Hermione knew what he was doing and what he was doing was trying to make her angry, so she tried to tune out the sound of his voice unsuccessfully, her entire being shaking with frustration, fury, and the desire to remain collectedly calm. However, Malfoy had not stopped and every syllable he shot at her seemed to knock her back down a few pegs from her serenity and sooner than later, her fist started balling up and her entire body was shaking along with him. He was doing this on _purpose_.

"No wonder Potter and Weasley haven't come looking for you!" Draco continued, a trail of blood smeared thickly across the exposed flesh of his neck. "You'd only be useful in setting them _behind!"_

And though Hermione was far too smart to be tricked into such games, she gave up and, instead, handed him what he'd asked for. Thus, she released her fists and leaned her body forward, her voice just as harsh and bitter as Draco's. "You told me about how you dream about me! How you _touch_ me!" and her voice was shrill when she said it, for she almost choked on her own words as the expression in Malfoy's face drained rather suddenly. He clamped his mouth shut and took it, though Hermione was certain that he really did look rather ill. However, she was not done because he had wanted to know, hadn't he? And she was certain only because he'd been so fucking adamant. So she told him, "you told me _where _you touch me, too, Draco," and he flinched, though continued to say nothing.

Thus, Hermione graciously filled in the blanks. "You touch my lips! You touch my chest! And you touch me between my legs! When you dream about me, you kiss me on your bed and you kiss me on the neck." Anger flooded through her body rapidly and the words tumbled from her lips as if she were reading from a script; so much so that she wondered if she'd had it memorized. Every sentence that he'd uttered to her echoed throughout her head as she repeated them back. But he'd _wanted _to know. He'd told her, he'd wanted to know.

"You told me how I make you rethink everything!" she added, her breath shortened by her panting and, though she'd thought it might have been a trick of the light, she was certain she'd seen him wince. "How I make you feel curious." Then, with the last that was left in her, Hermione threw it back in his face. "I make you feel unsure! You told me how you don't even know who you are anymore!" she concluded, and her chest rose and fell spastically, her voice almost gone from the yelling, and she waited, her face hot and heated as she stared back at the boy and waited... just waited... because he had to say something.

But he didn't. Rather, Draco only stared at Hermione with an expression of upmost humiliation before he even moved a muscle. And when he did, he did so slowly, almost surely sinking into himself giving a curt and short nod before bringing his knees up to his chest and burying his white-blond head down to the very front of them. He hugged the circumference of his legs with his arms and, when Hermione heard him speak again, he only muttered, "I'm going to bed."

Hermione flinched, an excess of guilt rushing through her overwhelmingly. And she chewed her bottom lip, her tense body calming with sympathy as she attempted to scoot forward, voice growing softer as she reminded him timidly, "... you told me you wanted to know." But her eyes stung when she said it and, still, she didn't feel any better about it, either.

"Exactly, Granger," came the stiff reply, and Hermione wasn't certain of what to make of it, "took you long enough."

"Well," Hermione informed him awkwardly, "you didn't have to get me angry like that..."

A dry scoff sounded out from Draco's curled up limbs. "It worked, didn't it?" he informed her and Hermione closed her mouth. Dammit.

Then she waited for him to speak up again and he didn't, so Hermione took in the sight of him, his face hidden, and wondered about the boy behind the one she'd known at school. The revelations had given her an entirely new perspective and, as she chewed uncertainly on her lower lip, she found that she really wasn't sure what she should think. He'd dreamt about her, of course, but he had also risked his life to save her... ended up joining her down in the Cellar to prove it. And yet, this was so strange because this was not supposed to happen. Hermione was intelligent; she was supposed to have found a way out of the Manor by now; Harry and Ron were strong and, with the Order, they should have been able to accomplish it, too. And people like Draco Malfoy who were cunning and sneaky... people like Draco Malfoy weren't supposed to end up on the other side of the War...

People like Draco Malfoy weren't supposed to be dreaming about people like Hermione Jean Granger.

Her head spun. Her limbs hurt. She knew she would not sleep a wink during the night and, despite the Veritaserum, she found herself wanting to know. So stupidly, she asked, "did you mean it? What you said, I mean. About the dreams."

"That's none of your business," Draco retorted from his knees.

"Oh, right, Malfoy. Weren't you the one who said it_ is_ your business if it involves you?" Hermione counteracted, finding that her face was reddening all over again. "Well involves me," she said, her voice clear despite the ways in which it wavered. "So it's my business."

And then a slight moment passed where nothing was said, though Hermione wasn't certain he was ever going to answer her. Nonetheless, she opened her mouth to speak again only to spot that Malfoy's posture was changing. His arms shifted, and he moved them from his their tight embrace at his knees to instead wrap them around his head before he murmuring, "unfortunately." But the way his tone broke made Hermione think that he actually _had _started to cry; so she stiffened, clamping her teeth down on her lower lip to consider him all over again when he added, "God, I'm so fucked up."

And she really wasn't sure what to think when he'd said it, for he'd implied that the mere act of fancying her had been fucked, so she sat there confused and uncertain and watched his shoulders bob up and down, his back just _barely_ wracked with everything that he was trying to hide; but Hermione was sure that they were there. Nonetheless, she sat in her silence, mumbling bitterly, "right," and flattening her back against the stone in a crooked manner, trying to forget. So she pushed the thought of Malfoy's half-insult from her mind, deciding whether or not her offense had been justified, and folded her arms across her chest to match Malfoy's crunched-up stature.

When she fell asleep, she dreamt of something specific, someone with white hair... or perhaps blond. But when she awoke, she didn't remember a single detail and, instead, stared into the blindingly blurred aspect of Draco's downcast head.

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"Up."

Draco Malfoy opened his eyes to darkness and adjusted them to see the staggering figure of Vincent Crabbe, only slightly more composed than he'd been since the last time that he'd seen him.  
Still, though, he held the same demeanor of hostility that he had before; wand stretched out in front of him, Crabbe put on an expression of fierce bitterness that was made noticable by the flash in his eyes. And he nodded once, a thick jerk of his chin, and said it again, this time with no less of a growl. "Up."

Draco's eyes flickered to Hermione and, in the blackness, he saw her scrunched up figure just as he'd left her. And, while her hair was a God-awful mess, he was certain that she'd been asleep. Thus, Malfoy regarded Crabbe all over again, this time picking himself up stubbornly before his knees gave way and and Crabbe made a swift grab to assist him begrudgingly, only to be shoved away, an infuriated groan sounding out from Malfoy's heaving chest as he curled back to the stone for support.

However, Crabbe was on him in an instant; snarling, he reached forward and seized the front of his tattered blue sweater. "Stop fucking around," he commanded, and tightened his grip. "I'm supposed to tell you to keep quiet and they won't kill you."

"So what, you're their bloody puppet now?" Malfoy retorted. Wrong move. The larger boy socked Draco so hard in the jaw that he was sure he'd heard it crack. And then Crabbe was back upon him, saussage-fingers wrapped around the fabric to shove him forward and watch him struggle, thus pointing the end of his wand at the nape of Malfoy's neck.

"Not so high and mighty now, are we without our wands?" Crabbe seethed, watching Malfoy flinch. He leaned forward to unlock the iron gates and pushed the blond forcefully up the set of staggering stairs. "I've heard them talking, too, you know," he whispered, his voice unsteady and confident all at the same time. "They're still going to have you do your job. They're still going to have you kill Granger."

They broke through the top set, standing just in front of the Cellar Door and Crabbe's hand lingered, just there at his wand and on Draco's collar. And he said, "_he'_s here too, now, by the way," and the way in which he'd said the words make Malfoy eye the door with an entirely new outlook. He was there. _He was there_. "The Dark Lord," Crabbe was saying and Draco felt himself shiver, "and he's not happy." For the chubby hand that held onto the blond tightened, and Draco felt almost dizzy as Crabbe leaned forward and pushed the door to the Cellar back open, revealing to Malfoy the living room of the Manor- something he felt like he hadn't seen in a matter of months.

But then all was clouded by the figures in the entrance. Tall, hooded, and brimming, the Death Eaters stood before the two with smiles that only mocked that of welcoming glances. There was nothingness before the utter blackness then, when Bellatrix Legstrange stepped forward to leer invasively at her nephew, she did so only to say, "hello, Draco... seems as if we might have some use of you after all."

And then he was led from the Cellar completely, into the first streak of light he had seen since his eternal damnation.

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**Vonne: **Sorry this update took me so long! Please, don't hesitate to review. It feeds my motivation!


	23. Tranquilize

**Vonne: **First off, I'm so sorry that it's taken me this long to update "Cellar Door". However, I'm working on updating the chapters to all my other stories, as well. So, at least that's a bit of an excuse, right? Anyways, please don't hold it against me. I've had so much to do and, really, so little time to do it all. But! I'm happy to have this out to you all tonight, so please don't hesitate to leave me a review and let me know what you think. Review responses will be at the bottom of this chapter, this time. Thank you!

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_"Silently reflection turns my world to stone. Patiently correction leaves us all alone, and sometimes I'm a travel man, but tonight this engine's failing.  
I still hear the children playing__."_**  
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**Chapter Twenty-Three**  
**Tranquilize **

They led him to the dining room and placed him in front of the long table that no one had ever been allowed to sit at before the Death Eaters arrived. Then they tossed him to the werewolf, who Draco recognized as Fenrir Greyback, and who breathed hot air down his neck and intertwined his claws into the blond locks of his captive's hair. They steered him to the end and shut the doors with a soft click; and the only light in the room was the pulsating blue bulb at the end of the host's extended wand. Lord Voldemort, in the flesh. Or, of course, lack thereof. But that didn't stop Draco Malfoy from being any more frightened. For, "oh, Draco," mused the man and, despite his distance, his voice carried the tone of a snake, hissing and sharp. "How you've... disappointed me."

And it hadn't been the first time Draco had heard the words; he remembered with a shudder the very night he had returned home with Severus Snape and his father, Lucius, to face the sight of the decaying man in the night at the very same table, around the very same time, wearing the very same smile. He'd told him, then, the very same words and his red eyes flashed as he tutted and tisked the way in which one would scold a child. But back then Draco had been lucky, because Snape had saved him and this time, _oh God, Draco didn't even see him there_. So he wondered what had become of the man before a choir of snickers cut through his very thoughts.

Something slithering scattered across the room and Draco gasped, stumbling back into Fenrir's chest to spot Nagini sliding through the bottoms of the chairs that lined the table. She coiled upwards and offered Malfoy a hiss before wrapping around the backs of the headrests and pulling her long body upon the table within the instant. Yet, the enormous snake continued further, pink tongue seething rapidly, as she spotted the outstretched arm of her master before she slipped up around its circumference and found refuge at the shoulders of Voldemort himself. "Come, Draco..."

He was pushed forward- shoved really- and he stumbled away from Fenrir to the side of the darkened room, only half steady on his balance. But he felt his head sway and the way in which his eyes blurred was almost far too much for him. Yet he felt the grip at the back of his head and Fenrir was back upon him, yanking him forward with full force. Still, Malfoy only permitted himself to be dragged, his eyes upon the snake before he followed it up and then located the spinning figure of someone new- someone human- swirling suspended at the very edge of the dark wooden table. And he'd seen shadows like this before; writhing things, their eyes usually found his before they were killed. This one, however, seemed unknowing. Unconscious and dangling, Draco saw only the vision of black and blue lids.

And then cold hands wrapped tightly around the bulk of Draco's jaw and a snapping sound filled his ears; and Voldemort whispered, "look at me," so Draco did and, instantly, felt that much weaker. The Dark Lord's wand was in his neck, and then just between his eyes; he smiled a slow and curling smile before Nagani, on his shoulders, writhed with anticipation. "Your father promised me... so much from you. _Crucio!"_ When Malfoy hit the floor beneath him, pain shot throughout his entire body. And he cried out despite himself, too far gone to stop any sort of submission, knocking his head against the legs of the chairs around him in the process. He felt his very bones catch fire, felt the healed bits of his torso threaten to split back open again. And Voldemort only glanced up from the floor to address the others, the curse still held on to Draco, to inform them, "this is what happens to those who defy me."

The partly-deceased man muttered, "_levicorpus_," and Draco felt himself being lifted. Still, he writhed in the air from the spell, eyes rolling back into his head, for he was certain that he was nearing the verge of unconsciousness. Yet the way in which his body was directed sent him had to head with the other levitated body. Though he could not see the figure in the dark, he felt the slight chill of the low breaths that echoed out from the parting of its shaded lips. Nonetheless, when Voldemort released the spell, Draco sagged in the air, eyes far too blurry to make out the identity of his airborne partner. Thus, his neck snapped in the way that his head fell backwards and he gasped hoarsely, eyes refocusing on the scene in the dining room form his view of it upside down.

And he thought about dying and how, after everything, it wouldn't be so bad. He wondered quietly if the world would even miss Draco Malfoy, if they would even hold a funeral for him. Nonetheless, as the moments ticked on, he remained breathing and suspended, his head still aching with the pressure of lingering just several feet above the dining table. Still, he felt the tickle of his partner's hair in his face; long, brown hair that was almost obnoxiously too bushy. "Ladies and gentlemen," hissed Voldemort before Draco had even the slightest amount of time to register the identity, "Draco Malfoy."

A choir of murmurs went around the room and Draco was certain he'd never received an introduction so unmistakable, sarcastic sincerity aside. Though he felt the stroke of the Dark Lord smoothing back his hair and, for a split second, he was granted the ability of a far clearer sight; Hermione Granger, there in the air next to him. Draco blinked, feeling dizzy and weakened all at once. He had only just seen her in the Cellar with him when he'd been escorted out with Crabbe. She'd been fine. She'd been sleeping. And, from there, he had been lead from the dark to the light; and he'd been alone...When a hoarse gasp rattled out from Draco's chest, a collection of laughter shuffled throughout the darkened room around him.

"I've come to understand," drawled Voldemort, who didn't look so amused but instead rather curious, "that you have betrayed your loyalty to _me,_ in exchange for _this."_ When he said it, he lifted his hand from Draco's head and retracted it to his wand. Not touching Hermione directly, Voldemort lifted up a strand of her unkempt hair and coiled it around the circumference of his weapon. He regarded the thing as if trying to spot lice on it, but then flicked his eyes back up to catch Malfoy's within the instant. "Is that, true?" So, despite himself, Draco shook his head 'no', and he suppressed the sobs that threatened to wrack his body so violently. _No, no, no, no, no, no, no! _But that wasn't working because Bellatrix in the back shouted, "LIAR!" and Voldemort seemed to agree, because he raised his wand and pointed it near Draco and he was absolutely certain that he was going to die_. "__Crucio!"_

Yet, Draco felt nothing. Instead, he heard the thud of the body next to him drop and then, there she was. Hermione had been hit and her lifeless form fell to the surface of the dining room table. She gave out a scream, clearly awoken, and hovering over her, Draco saw her body flex and contort with the pains of the curse, her eyes screwed shut and her hands tightly clenched into two tight balls at her waist before she managed to wrap them around her stomach and groan inwardly. And Draco couldn't do anything to stop it. Only, he watched, fixated on hoping that it would end soon enough. Nonetheless, he felt the churn of his own chest as the minutes passed on and then finally, when he was certain that he couldn't hold out any longer, yelled hoarsely, "Stop!"

And so he did; Voldemort, with one slight glance up at the hovering Malfoy, released the curse and Hermione, who had been in so much pain before, fell silent, aside from the given pants that shuddered through her entire being. She did not look up at Draco, but instead squeezed her brown eyes shut, and Malfoy was shaking his head all over again. He wracked his brain for an excuse- for something to say that would, perhaps, help his situation in the eyes of the Dark Lord that he had so blatantly refused. "You'll- want- to k-keep her- alive," he said in between gasps. "For- P-Potter!"

Voldemort, however, only considered Malfoy's with a slight smile across his face. He turned to the Death Eaters surrounding the table, surveying to see who, exactly, had heard Draco. And then, when he was given his answer by means of what had been only more bouts of laughter, did he regard the blond boy all over again. "Oh?" he asked in a voice that was rather high-pitched, "for 'P-Potter', is it?" Then he lowered his hand and cradled the space at Draco's cheek, giving it a slight pat of amusement. "Now, Draco, while I find your input rather useful, I do think that it has arisen rather selfishly... What would your father think?" He paused, only for a moment, and then turned back to Hermione. "Yet, I must say that you certainly are on the right track."

They laughed again, the lot of them; and Draco wondered if he'd said something particularly amusing before Voldemort adjusted his wand again and pointed it squarely at Hermione's hunched back. "_Crucio!" _he said, though this time, he did so rather calmly. Nonetheless, Hermione moved just as spastically; for she seemed to crunch tighter into herself and this time when she screamed, Draco was certain that she could have broken the glass of the surrounding windows. Thus, he saw the consciousness slip from her entire being as the moments slipped by. She seemed to loosen, her eyes fluttering open lifelessly, and when her mouth parted to give one last muffled cry, Hermione Granger had finally succumbed to sleep. Only then did Voldemort drop the curse.

Still, he stepped to Draco's side and, with a flick of his wand, sent the boy slamming back down onto the table, where he landed next to Hermione and it took him several moments just to feel his own aching body again. And desperately, he reached for the outline of Hermione's hand, his fingers grazing over hers... wanting so much to feel for a pulse, a heartbeat, or anything really at all. "Not to worry, Draco," came the hissing voice of his Lord all over again, "I haven't ended her." When he slipped his hand into the roots of Malfoy's hair again, a cold shiver ran down the length of his spine. "That's still your job. Among other things."

And so, deflated, Draco glanced around the living room once more. He did not see Snape. He did not see his mother, did not see his father. And with Hermione unconscious, he was all alone. So very much alone. "Just," he breathed, glad that Hermione had not been awake to hear him, "j-just kill me." And he wanted to die, then, wanted it more than anything, really, in the world. Draco Malfoy would have been better off dead. Draco Malfoy would not have to suffer anymore and, he would not have to make Hermione Granger suffer along with him.

He thought of death like a way out, a merciful option. Thus, when Voldemort spoke again to say, "Oh, but not yet, Draco. Not yet. You've still got a job to do," he even sobbed in disappointment. And he didn't even flinch away from the man when he drew his fingers along the side of his cheek, the smile still ever so present on his face, because he knew- _knew_- that this time there was really no way out of any of this. "You see, turns out, what you've done... wasn't so bad after all?"

Malfoy's chest tightened; something inside of it clenched. When he found his voice, he stupidly managed to sputter, "i-it w-wasn't?"

Voldemort, grimy thing that he was, drew his fingers even further up the curve of poor Draco's cheek. He tutted and shook his head. "No, no, Draco... you see," he explained, "I have managed to find a lighter side to this little incident," and when he said it, his tone was rather gentle. But Draco didn't want to hear the lighter side, didn't want to hear it because the look in the man's eye was all but promising. Rather, every core of the boy was screaming at him to get up, to grab Hermione and run. But he couldn't. He couldn't. He couldn't. Draco Malfoy was trapped.

When Bellatrix snickered in the corner, he knew that his entire life in the Manor would never be the same again.

"My boy, you look so down...". The way that Voldemort spoke to him was as if he were speaking to a child, and he twisted his face up into an expression of mock concern. His eyes flashed just a little. "Don't you want to hear the plan, Draco?"

There were _many _things Draco Malfoy wanted, but hearing whatever it was that the Dark Lord had planned was not one of them. What he wanted was his father. What he wanted was his mother. Snape. Or even Harry fucking Potter. He wanted Dumbledore back because, if anything, the old man would have known what to do. But the Headmaster _had_ warned him, hadn't he? There, on the dark, shaded Astronomy Tower. He'd offered Draco his help and he, Draco, had turned the other cheek. Now more than ever he was really rather regretting it. And, because there wasn't really much for him to do, Draco felt his fingers twitch up and give Hermione's outstretched hand a weak little tap.

_"'Mione,"_ he tried in his lowest possible whisper, but managed only to croak something hollow and rough. The depths of his throat scratched as if a pair of claws were there, harshly at the end, preventing him from speaking properly. _Wake up,_ he wanted to tell her, yet a pitiful sound rung out from his mouth and it sounded sloppy, sending a pool of bloody spit out from the deepened cracks of his lips.

"Don't worry about the girl, Draco," Voldemort whispered, still sounding all the more soft. He brought his hand up and cupped the pointed part of Draco's wet chin. Then he brush aside the trails of drool and tears with the crook of his calloused thumb. "I was quite certain you'd want to hear the plan, my boy... seeing how it involves... _so much _of you." And then Draco caught the sight of the Dark Lord's wand in his hand and he thought that it looked brand new. Thus, despite the laughter that started up around him again, Draco managed to blink into the oblivion of the blackness to find the wiry thing. The wand was definitely not Voldemort's wand. Definitely not. But Draco recognized it and, _why did he recognize it?_

But Voldemort was saying something about Potter and Draco's attention was brought away from the familiar thing, for Voldemort's grip tightened and Draco's head was jerked back up. For a split second, he found himself blinking into the bright light of the chandelier and then, almost as if on cue, the candles there dimmed. Only then the rotting, gray face of what had been left of Tom Riddle remained. "You've been writing letters, haven't you, Draco?"

"N-N-No-" Draco tried, but was cut off by the harsh impulse of what felt like acid as if rushed through Voldemort's veins and pumped to his fingers, making them tighten at his jaw.

"Do _not_ lie to me!" hissed the man and all Draco Malfoy could do was whimper. Even Pettigrew laughed. But Voldemort did not seem to be amused anymore and he clutched Draco's jaw so tightly that the blond started to see stars. Nonetheless, when the passageway to his throat constricted, Draco's eyes watered and he caught sight of Voldemort's snake-like eyes catch fire. When he breathed out, it was almost as if a gust of smoke leaked from the nostrils of the nose he did not possess. "Now," begun the man all over again, and he brought his face so close to Draco's that he could practically smell the rancid breath upon his own visage, "let's start over again. Have you been writing letters to _Harry Potter_?"

And, this time, when Draco writhed beneath Voldemort's grip, he found himself crying out, "yes!" for dear life; but then his head was slammed back into the table and the sound of footsteps retreated away from him and he didn't see stars anymore, but only the back of Hermione's half-constricted head.

He saw Voldemort lift up his wand again- his new wand- and Draco almost was certain that he could feel his heart drop entirely. Hadn't he seen that wand once? Certainly he'd seen a handful of different wands before in his lifetime, but something about the one that the Dark Lord was holding then stood out to him. Something about it whispered, "_Draco, years ago, I knew a boy who made all the wrong choices...". _Then a loud, possessive voice cut off Draco Malfoy's train of thought entirely.

"Now, Draco..." Voldemort said, and his voice sounded distant, as if he were far off at the end of a tunnel that stretched on forever and ever and ever. "Can you see how I would not be happy to hear such news?" Draco looked for Goyle, or even Crabbe, but neither of the two seemed to be present. Still, as the boy moved his gray eyes around the room, he found that Voldemort and the Death Eaters remained his only company. Thus, when the man pulled his face away from Draco's and lifted the wand to his nose, Malfoy felt a tug at his ribcage and then a pair of unseen hands climb up to his neck and clench there; though not a soul was touching him, Draco Malfoy could not breathe.

"Come now, Draco, speak up!"

Nothing made sense anymore; nothing. And they were toying with him, of course, but they hadn't yet killed him; and the fact practically ate away at Draco Malfoy. But he couldn't take the pressure that pressed down at this neck and he clawed uselessly at the fingers that weren't there, his legs moving against the tabletop and, with his eyes pressed shut, he was happy that Hermione was not awake to see him like this. Still, he blinked away the tears that formed at the corner of his eyes and struggled to inhale as the world around him spun and spun and spun and, _oh God, he wished that it would just stop spinning because he really, really needed to rest. _

When the spell released, Draco saw nothing but the swaying chandelier. "Draco, Draco, Draco..." cooed the man, who was so close now, but sounded so far, "you truly have disappointed me."

Malfoy opened his mouth. He wanted to lie and say that he hadn't meant to, wanted to say that he wished he could take it all back. But he couldn't even get the words out because a million of them swam around in his head and he breathed heavily, so heavily, as if he were certain that each one was undoubtedly going to be his last. Still, Hermione remained motionless, her uncurled hand just inches in front of his own, and he blinked down at her, hoping she'd make a move when, out of nowhere, a collection of pale, grimy hands lifted her from his side and he croaked, "_no!_" despite everything and, _God, he hated himself for it._

But they moved her off of the table and then she was lifted into the air, dangling downwards so that her unconscious face swung tauntingly in front of his. Bellatrix Lestrange was there, too, and she smiled perfectly in the way that her teeth sat jagged at the inside of her mouth. And she said, "ah, ah, ah, ah...", before the body of the girl was moved. And then he was certain she was gone by the lack of warmth in the room around him. He'd been left there with horrible, murderous, awful people; left there in the dining room with people who wouldn't think twice about killing him, or her, had they been given their permission.

No more Hermione and the room seemed to plummet in temperature. And certainly, the Death Eaters and their Lord were heartless. Cold blooded, a_nd why shouldn't he have been left there with such entities, when he, himself, was so, so cold?_ "Would you like to hear of the use I have of you, Draco?" hissed the man, a smile spreading across his face, ever so gently. He flicked his wand from one hand to the other. Draco knew that wand. Dumbledore's wand.

And he didn't want to know. He really didn't want to know. He'd have given his arm and leg up, just not to know. But then the Dark Lord had said, "Bella..." And the dark shadow of his aunt stepped forward. Then, finally, Voldemort's fingers lifted from his face, for he offered Draco a last parting expression before the room shifted and he had gone. Disapperated.

He'd taken the wand with him, too, the familiar one that Draco had thought he'd held once; and now only the Death Eaters remained, because Draco saw nothing but so much black. For they made their way to the dining room table and Bellatrix Lestrange flashed him a smile that was horrifyingly beautiful, only to lean in close and cup his cheek in the same manner that Voldemort had, her voice silky, but rancid with the rotting smell of death, and decay, and _six feet deep. _She said, "come, baby, look up at your auntie," and gripped his chin loosely to pull it in her direction, gray eyes shaky and reluctant upon the face that was only blurred with the distinction of his life, dwindling.

"Ah," she said, "There they are... There's those pretty eyes."

Draco's throat tightened. He felt a rush of air spin around him and, for a moment, he lost himself. Then the shudders came and his entire body was wracked with them. He wondered what they'd done with Hermione, with his mother and father. And despite himself, he mumbled fearfully, "S-Severus...?"

Laughter erupted around the dining room. Bellatrix looked lovely and as composed as ever. Her black hair sat in spiral curls around her pale, white face, and she drew her long nails across the side of his cheek. "Unfortunately, Severus isn't here tonight, Draco. But your Auntie Bella is. And she doesn't think you've been so bad. Not anymore."

But Draco didn't fancy the look in her eye and the strange way that she stared steadily at him. Though, still, he hoped for her sincerity, and he leaned into her touch desperately, despite the splitting headache that threatened to crack him into two separate pieces. "N-No?"

"Oh, no," Bellatrix murmured, and Fenrir Greyback licked his lips. "In fact, your contact with Harry Potter seems to have been rather... beneficiary."

"Yes," wheezed Rookwood from the back, his shadow moving just ever so slightly with his stature. "Good job, Draco... your father would be so proud."

She stepped away from the table so that Rookwood and Fenrir could lift him off of it. But his legs felt like jelly and he swayed with the newfound pressure he'd applied to them, fumbling into Rookwood's side on impact, his face buried within the fabric on his chest, his arms sore, and weak, and useless. Still, they hoisted him up further, grabbing him under his shoulders to wrap his arms around their shoulders and fumble mockingly with his hair, messing it out of place so that it fell limply in front of his eyes. And Bellatrix was saying something in the background that he couldn't quite make out, for he knew only the fact that the feet of the men were moving him; and he was being led.

Thus, the kissing doors of the dining room pulled open and he blinked in the sight of the rest of the house before making an unconscious glance towards the Cellar and wondering if Hermione had been left alone. But the figures to the side showed him Crabbe and Goyle, who stood with their backs straight and stiff; and Goyle, poor Goyle, he couldn't even meet Draco's eyes. Yet it was Crabbe, of course, who had. His body rigid and steady all at once, arms held behind his back in the manner of a solider or something distinctly close. He followed the blond as he was led, down the corridors, past the wreckage of the living room, and to the grand entrance of his father's tidy office.

It stood like a specter in the near distance. He'd have recognized it once, had his father been seated behind the large desk; but this time was different because not a soul occupied the enormous space. Ghostly and haunting, the scene was only dim, shaded with the mask of what it used to have been. And half of him hoped for his father to stride out from behind the curtains, just so that he, Draco, didn't feel so alone; though he knew that Lucius Malfoy was nowhere to be seen and the fact absolutely _crushed _him.

He didn't want to breech the doors into the office, but they led him through, anyways, fingers clamped tightly on his limps as they let his feet drag across the lovely carpet below him. And with a swoosh of their wands, they lit the candles and shut the doors, blocking out Crabbe and Goyle completely, and closing off the room in secret. Then, slowly, they showed him to the chair- his father's chair- and he felt the urge to collapse his head upon the table, for he was just that exhausted. But they held his head up with their hands by his chin and, in a sliding manner, they slipped a blank piece of rolled parchment in his direction, letting the ends uncurl upon the desk that had looked otherwise elegantly untouched.

A feathered quill was dangled in his direction and Bellatrix laced her fingers around his, just to help him grasp the end of it. And he felt it there in the palm of his hand, light and dainty; his father's favorite green quill; but he wasn't exactly sure what they'd expected him to do with it, because he stared down at his incompetent hand as if it were invalid, unmoving and uneasy. Still, only the candles flicked around him, and he could hear his own breath, short and jagged as it echoed through the room and back into his head like a Muggle boomerang. _Inhale, Exhale_. A set of five spidery fingers ran through his unkempt hair eagerly.

But he glanced up at the lot of them, all hovering, to register the swarming way that they leaned in upon him. And Bellatrix was _still _talking, still running her fingers around his shoulders, rubbing them in the way that a lover might, perhaps. But the men around her only allowed their faces to grow, brighter as they considered the cautious figure of Draco Malfoy, his stature so child-like and innocent beyond the veils of his utter uncertainty. And he thought that they might be taking a lifetime; for they spoke in overdrawn sentences and ran the backs of their hands down the side of his cheek and, contrary to his previous belief, they told him over and over again how _easy _he'd made it all.

Thick, black figures there with their smirks. The ghosts of their laughter danced around him and, really, he wasn't exactly sure what it was that was so funny. He opened his mouth one more time to slur something, though he wasn't exactly sure what, and then from the back, a large hooded figure lifted his wand. When a strong voice murmured, "_Imperio,_" Draco felt nothing.

* * *

He woke on the desk of his father with a hazy outlook and a thundering headache. The pain in his neck told him how he'd slept on his neck improperly; and the numb prick of pins and needles in his feet told him that perhaps he wouldn't take to walking so easily. And everything flashed back on him; the dim light of the remaining candles as it shone illuminated on the waxy drip they left behind. He wondered how long he'd been left there; or _why_, he'd been left there, really, because the odd sense of fuzzy-headed daze was clue enough to tell him that he did not know.

And everything was soundless, save for the crack of fire and the every once in a while footstep that tapped steadily against the floor outside. Only solitude lingered in the wake of the emerald office and Draco-_ tired Draco_- managed just enough to lift his heavy arms and push himself up from the grand chair at Lucius' desk. He breathed into the dim light, his chest on fire, and pushed lightly way from the thing entirely only to fumble back forward, his fingers latched onto the walls for just a moment so that he could take in the strangeness of it all.

Nothing seemed right, not even the raindrops that hit the ceiling from the tearful weather outside; and Malfoy scanned the light that seeped through the crack of the doors, for it stretched longingly at his feet and just about made it to his soles. He wondered what had happened to the time and thought, _perhaps it truly does fly. _Still, everything seemed as if it had been a mere dream- and nightmare, of course- except that much more exaggerated. He hoped that the faces of the Death Eaters had been nothing more than the wild imagination of his brain, hoped the Lord Voldemort had never truly entered angrily back into his life.

And he half expected no one to be standing beyond the door, _prayed _even that that were the case. But the reminder of his slim chances made him shiver. The overwhelming possibility that the tiny specs of his night that he did remember had been true, made him queasy with anxiety. He thought that he perhaps his knees were about to give out, that his head was about to crumble into itself. And it was worse, even, than all the hangovers he'd ever had in his life combined. Worse than every early morning facing the sun. Worse than five o'clock staggers to the bathroom, sick with the left over of _booze, booze, booze. _

_"Go on, be a good boy, and write your friend, Potter, another nice letter..."_

Malfoy spun around. He'd heard the whisper of his Aunt in the back of his head and he breathed out into the emptiness. She was nowhere to be seen, but that much had been expected. Nonetheless, the breathy utterance of her voice had rendered him rather momentarily immobile, and it sparked the slightest image of his view from the desk, his father's quill in hand and her pretty, pale complexion, right there in his face. He thought he might have penned a letter, though he certainly did not remember penning any thing of the sort; and his fingers ached with the essay-writing cramp of having gripped something slender for far too long. He thought, _"I couldn't have possibly penned Potter another letter," _and then, "_I'm almost certain I didn't pen Potter another letter," _before finally, "_When could I have penned Potter another letter?", _and his chest ached with the realization that perhaps, after everything, the bits and pieces that he did remember had not truly been just a dream after all.

And he didn't want to go out there, didn't want to risk it. Though, anxious thing that he was, he could not stand the ignorance of not having stepped forward any further, for the silence seemed to drag on reluctantly in the way that he stood on his stumbling feet, there like a child far too afraid to peer beyond the shadowy depths of his closet at night for anything monstrous. But the sway of the wavy floor below him made him extend his feet outwards, still striding in a stagger, but staggering just enough so that he could, within minutes, find the front of the kissing doors and let his clammy hand hover hesitantly on it.

He waited for the shout, for the blood curling scream of Hermione or someone else whose life he'd ruined. But when nothing came, Draco felt a large lump form in his throat and he chewed nervously on his bottom lip, telling himself to buck up and get it over with. He'd already been damned as much _this _far. And what, if anything, was a little stroke of curiosity going to serve against him now, anyways?

So he went for a plunge, brave for the first time in a long time, and gripped the chilly handle with a sharp inhale that wracked his ribs. On the release, he breathed it all out; a whooshing sound of desperation sent his shoulder in a twisting motion, just long enough to pull the door back and open it entirely, once and for all. And there were no Death Eaters to meet him, but instead Crabbe and Goyle, just as proper has he had seen them before the arrival of Voldemort to begin with. But still, Goyle certainly did not meet Draco's curious gaze, for he looked only at the tile beneath the bottom of his black leather shoes, and his wand struck out crookedly at his side. Nonetheless, Crabbe made up in Goyle's lack of dominance. His eyes just barely flecked over the front of the dumb-struck and dizzy Draco with a swift smile; his wand, on the other hand, looked perfectly at the ready.

And Draco stared at the tip and thought about how he'd just about had enough of being cursed and hexed already; though, just as he'd finished the thought, Crabbe had opened his flabby mouth in preparation. He looked as if he were about to scold, "took you long enough," before he said instead, "_stupefy," _in a lazy sort of manner; and Draco went down like a building, in fragments that left his knees to bend out underneath him and plummet him back to the floor, just before the parting of the carpet and the tile. And then, he wasn't even conscious to feel them move him; Crabbe first, of course, as he stepped up to make grab for Draco's upper torso, and Goyle, who hesitated before looping his own fat fingers around the boy's lifeless legs.

Then they hoisted him in a manner that rewinded through the parallel sense of room-switching that the Death Eaters had carried him through; this time, though, they paused before the corridor of the Cellar, exchanging mismatched looks before spelling the thing open, and descending back into the deep.

* * *

**Vonne: **You know what to do!

**Sarah: **Thank you so much! I'm so glad that you continue to come back and read these chapters every time I update. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting for such a long time for this chapter, but I hope you enjoy it just as much. I hope you didn't, in fact, go insane! Thanks for all the reviews you've given me! Thanks again!

**Isabella120: **Oh, I think I can make it just a little bit worse before it gets any better for poor, poor Draco. I'm so happy that you enjoyed the last chapter. I hope you liked this one, too!

**Starlight Santuary: **Thank you very much! You're one of the first people I've ever had recognize 'Hell' in the title! Im so proud. It's definitely a good song, isn't it?

**Corey Fitzwilliam: **Sorry! I'm on a bit of a cliff hanger fit, aren't I? This story is coming to an end in just a few more chapters, so perhaps we'll get a happy ending sooner or later... Then again, of course, who knows?

**Forbiddenluv: **Voldemort always choses to show up at the worst of moments, doesn't he? But I have to agree with you; Hermione's wonderful when she loses her temperature, isn't she? She's just so easy to get worked up. Then again, so's Draco. He just choses to ignore that fact about himself, doesn't he?

**Ambuu: **I've actually never read "Pride and Prejudice" (or seen the movie, either), believe it or not! That's really interesting, though! I've heard it was really good, though!

**LivelyMcBrighten: **Thank you! I hope you liked this chapter, as well!

**LeCandeh: **Thanks! I'm glad you enjoyed the last chapter!

**McLanna: **Sorry! I definitely have been ending the past chapters with a lot of cliff hangers lately, haven't I? Sorry for the latest one, but I hope you enjoyed this last chapter, anyways. Please don't hesitate to let me know what you think.

**Psychic City: **Hey, look, I pulled a 'you'! ;)

**Carl: **Thank you! I'm glad you liked it!

**Scarlettlady: **Hello, again! I know you didn't review on the last chapter, but I'm so glad that you've decided to read some of the things I've written on FF. I'm so flattered! Thank you very, very much! I hope you've been enjoying 'Cellar Door' as much as you have 'Malfoy Manor is Not Haunted'. Thanks again!


	24. The Butterfly Effect

**Vonne: **Hello again! I'm so excited to get this new chapter up and ready for all of you! It's been a while and I've had tons of papers to complete. However, I'm thrilled to be able to get a new chapter up. Thank you so much for all of you that reviewed, especially **A. Deca**, whose been impressively reviewing almost every single chapter from the first since my last update. Additionally, of course, I'd like to thank the rest of you: **LeCandeh**, **LivelyMcBrighten**, **MCLanna**, **Carl**, **Psychic City**, **Corey Fitzwilliam**, **Sarah**, **lizard**, **Isabella120**, **forbiddenluv**, and** Chaa**. Thanks so much for the comments from the last chapter! You've motivated me so much to pick up the pace with this.

Hopefully my updates will come much faster with the help from all of you and as always, I'm so happy to find that I tend to! Thanks again! A lot of you were anticipating that I was going to submit this before I actually did. Truth be told, I honestly _did_ try to post it at that time, but FF had some type of error that I had to wait out...

Also, I would like to request that, if you have time, you check out a one-shot I wrote a couple weeks ago entitled "Malfoy Manor is Not Haunted". It's entirely up to you, of course, but I am thinking about writing a sequel to it and I would love to know what you think on that idea. Be warned, it's a dark!fic with mentions of abuse and a minor (or major, depending of how you look at it) character death. I am really interested in all of your thoughts and I would d love to hear your opinions on it! So don't hesitate to let me have it!

Now finally...

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_"Such minor changes, such huge consequences. The end is only the beginning."_

**

* * *

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**Chapter Twenty-Four**  
**The Butterfly Effect**

_"It's funny," _thought Draco Malfoy when he awoke, for the second time, in the stoney gray corners of the dingy old Cellar, _"how the tables have turned."_

Right. Perhaps not _ha-ha_ funny, but ironically so, more blatant when considering its sadistic satire. However he, Draco, had ended up the Death Eater's prisoner was beyond him and, for the most part, seemed to play out as if a dream- no thanks, of course, to the hazy feeling he'd grown so accustomed to ever since he'd suspected they'd been drugging him. In all his years, he would have never have seen it coming. He was a _Malfoy, _dammit. And yet, in the back of his mind he knew that that didn't mean much anymore.

His life, he'd thought, would end as quickly as it had begun. Once they'd dispersed his body parts in different sections of the Wizarding and Muggle World alike, Draco would become nothing more than a distant memory. Potter would be thrown to the dogs. They'd kill Weasley on sight. Draco Malfoy, he'd never get to save Hermione Granger. It'd be his life's biggest tragedy. A comedy of sorts, all leading to the fact that he never was going to amount to anything that he'd always thought he would. As he considered the notion at the floor of the dungeons, he couldn't help but think that money... it did him no good. Sure, he'd had the best flying broom in production, but it hadn't gotten him any sort of redemption. Neither had his egyptian sheets, or his embroidered cloaks, or his leather shoes. And, on top of all of it, his big house hadn't helped matters, either. In the end, the Death Eaters moved in. In the end, they were all going to Hell.

Draco had been waiting for the punch line for as long as he could remember. God, he figured, had a sick sense of humor. He was a kid with a microscope in the summer, a bully on the playground during break. Malfoy, he felt like an ant underneath the shadow of a plummeting shoe. It was like his funeral, but not. His death sentence. His pity party. As he'd lie slumped up against the wall, he'd thought that perhaps everything he had ever experienced had only occurred to lead him up to the point of his great fall from grace. He presumed he'd still been falling, come to think of it. And then, as he shifted achingly against the rock beneath him, he suppressed the idea that landing might not be so clean cut, either.

The house moved barely in the night. Blackness surrounded the boy and, for good measure, he brought his knees outward and wiped the slate of his bloody palms across the fabric of his trousers. Hermione had been there, too, but the breaths that wracked her overturned body were shallow, slow within the confines of the sleep that she'd been so mercilessly permitted. Draco wondered, for a moment, if she'd remember before hoping that she wouldn't. And though every fiber of his being screams for him not to care, he can't help but watch the broad expanse of her shoulders, folded as she groaned dreamily. Despite himself, his stomach ruefully churned.

Who'd have thought, anyway, that he, Draco Malfoy, could care so much for someone like Hermione Jean Granger? He'd never really liked her much back in school and her puppy-dog terms with Harry Potter certainly hadn't helped. Then Draco sighed; surely one could not have imagined that any sort of alliance with Harry fucking Potter would have come into the mix and yet, he had surprised even himself. And strangely enough, the upside down reality of it all only made him more and more miserable. Draco cursed himself for his ill will and poor sense of judgement. All things considered, he should have just sucked it up and been a Death Eater. It would have been far easier, anyway. And besides, he'd never had a thing for heroes.

But what did that make him, then? His failure suggested that he had not, in the broadest sense of terms, 'saved the day'. In fact, he had come up lucky, for one that despised heroes so much, he certainly had not turned out to be one of them. In his head, Draco marked his latest disaster on the hypothetical wall of his brain. They were starting to stack up, the tally marks, starting to really exist clearly. And it had been an odd sort of thought that passed his mind when he'd considered where he'd be when he'd make the last mark- which utter fuck-up would be his last. Perhaps, he'd thought, it'd be soon enough. Perhaps, he thought, he wouldn't even see it coming.

And that's what scared him most of all, really; the not knowing part. Growing up spoiled rotten, Draco Malfoy had never really grown used to those type of surprises. He'd been a planner, a scheduler, right down to the very core. He could predict the outcome of anything and everything just by trusting the feeling in his gut. The difference now was that that much was impossible and, besides, he didn't have much 'feeling' left anymore, anyway. Too numb to sense anything- let alone a sixth sense- Draco moved his hair from out of his eyes, not even able to register the simple brush of his fingertips across the sweat on his forehead. _"Stupid," _he scolded, "_bloody daft and undeniably stupid."_ With his last breath, he wished that he'd never looked out the window of his bedroom all those nights ago in the first place.

With his last rush of consideration, Draco thought finally of the Butterfly Effect. Perhaps, he recollected miserably, he could have prevented all this. Every last stitch of it. It had been silly on the surface, but Draco, he thought of everything down to the very last detail. Had he woken up an hour later, maybe he'd never have been assigned with the task of killing Granger at all. Had he worn different clothes, combed his hair to the left, drank the white wine instead of the red. Causation, he considered. Causation. All events were determined by another and, if that much had been true, than he really _had_ screwed himself over. Bugger.

He thought, "_Fuck the Butterfly Effect," _and only half-meant it. He wanted more than anything to blame the universe for his misfortune, but instead reluctantly saw the sense in which all of it had been his fault. He'd been careless with the letters, careless with his late night meetings, and careless with Crabbe, even. Crabbe, who'd suspected it all from the start. The descriptive adjective, "obvious" ran through his head and, all things considered, Draco had certainly thought he'd been so. Careless, and obvious, and predictable; three things that would have never described him before all this. It'd been his fault. His fault. Bloody hell, ever since the _beginning_ it had been his fault.

"What happened?" It's Hermione who speaks from the darkness and Draco hadn't even a chance to see her rousing. In the middle of his thoughts he'd sputtered, eyes fluttering open to find the space of the girl in the corner, her twisted figure just newly positioned into an awkward sitting position, brown hair almost abnormally frizzy, which Draco concluded thoughtfully, said something. She looked sleepy, but the bloodshot state of her eyes did nothing to set her back. Rather, she peered at Draco through the darkness and, with a ping that looked almost like concern, added, "Are you alright?"

Draco said nothing. With a curt nod of his head, however, he confirmed that, for now at least, he had been. He didn't ask her, despite the fact that the question was biting at him mercilessly. Hermione, however, glanced back up towards the iron gates at the edge of their holding cell. She gave a short breath and, unsteadily, prepared herself for the question. "Is... Is _he_ still here?" she finally asked. And Malfoy shrugged; though he'd seen Voldemort vanish in front of his very eyes, he hadn't felt much like talking.

"I was up in the dining room," Hermione recited, her eyes flashing towards the gates all over again. "I don't even remember how I got up there." When she'd said it, Draco flinched; it hadn't been as if he could answer that one, of course. Her arrival had been most certainly a surprise to him as well and even thinking about it made him feel unprepared. "W-Were you?"

"Momentarily," Draco reported, and the soreness in his throat scratched against him in a manner that was oddly hostile. At least, he'd thought, she didn't remember the embarrassing way he'd stared back at her. And the sheer reminder of his disgraceful vice made him flush, far too prideful to admit having reached for her, called for her, begged for her. Most of all, he was glad that she didn't remember.

And Hermione's face fell in a way that made Malfoy think her world was coming apart, because confusion was not an expression that she wore well. Her brows furrowed in a way that made her eyes flicker and she stared, for a moment, at the lanky figure of Draco, taking him in so slowly that he felt uncomfortable, even unmoving before her. "I don't understand," she said finally, and she shook her head carefully, just so much that a small curl bounded out of place and rose up on the plateau of her blood stained shoulder. "What do you mean 'momentarily'?"

Wherever the bitterness in Draco's chest had come from, he wasn't quite certain. However, he narrowed his eyes and scowled back at her, despite lacking any true bite at all. "Meaning," the blond scolded, annoyed, "that they decided they fancied a change of scenery, Granger, what else could I possibly have meant by 'momentarily'?"

Aside from blinking, Hermione did not respond back to any sort of nastiness in his unnecessary comment. "Where'd they take you?"

Malfoy thought seriously about not answering. For a moment, he contemplated all the advantages of remaining silent, yet the haunting image of Hermione's terrified face crossed his mind and he found, to his despair, that he couldn't do it. And he cursed himself a million times over, mentally kicking his torso in the ribs for such a weakness, but in the end, gave up to the overwhelming pull of her brown eyes. So, letting out a breath, the Slytherin averted his own gaze and did not, by any means, look into Hermione's. "They took me into my father's office."

"Why do that?"

"To write a letter," Malfoy answered, and he could almost feel the horrified way in which Hermione's posture stiffened.

"And why," she asked, "would they need you to do a t-thing like that?"

It was the sound of her stutter that he did not mistake. Every fragment in her speech was broken and unrefined. Every prolonged and hesitant word seemed to take a great deal of effort, forced, even, to spill from the open of her chapped and bleeding lips. "Because they've sent it to Potter," Draco told her, and he drew his crooked legs up, bending them so that his knees touched the spot at his chest that was hot. "Or they're _going_ to send it to Potter." With a distinct mumble, Malfoy murmured into the jagged mess of his limbs, "I wasn't really in the right state to be able to tell you for certain."

Hermione paused for a moment. He didn't have to look at her facial expressions to know the ways in which her face fumbled every other moment with the understandable swing of panic. Dumbly, she asked him, "D-Do you remember what you w-wrote, then?" and her throat clenched at the fall of her sentence, tight with the arrival of something thick, impending, as if whatever plan she'd constructed in her head was slowly beginning to diminish.

But of course Draco Malfoy didn't remember what he bloody well wrote. He could barely even remember the events after which, as it so seemed, ended with him lying unconscious at the surface of his father's writing desk. Hermione didn't know about the Death Eater's use of _Imperio, _of course, but Draco felt the strongest sense of embarrassment at the notion of telling her that much. Still, a flush of bitterness crept over him. Having ever thought he had once been a part of the Death Eaters made him humiliated. They'd never considered him the same and this he know knew. Funny, he thought. Very fucking hilarious how his entire existence had been one, big, joke.

Not _ha-ha_ funny, but pretty pathetically perfect in the eyes of some people. That much he knew. Maybe they'd laugh, he thought, at the sight of his Dark Mark encrusted arm when they'd find it on the porch of the house that belonged to the Minister of Magic. Perhaps _that,_ for some people's standards, would be the impending punch line of his miserable existence. Perhaps, he thought.

Okay. So maybe it was funny. In a sick sort of fucked-up way. And he almost laughed, too, but the murmur from the opposite end of the Cellar made him instead want to vomit.

"But," Hermione began, her eyes glistening with the expression of something rather unreadable, "won't Harry and Ron know that its a fake? They h-have to recognize your handwriting, at least..." Her voice faded away, but Draco could tell that she'd known. Despite the denial in her comment, every core of Hermione's being was crumbling and she _knew. _Harry and Ron would be lured out into the clearing by Draco Malfoy. They'd be met by the Death Eaters in the clearing. Then they'd be killed. "They'll have to know that that letter is a fake."

Malfoy's silence stunned her, yet she searched him frantically with her eyes and, all the while, ran through the sheer cliches of her hopefulness. She'd thought, Harry was far too clever and Ron was far too careful. They'd see the signs, she'd told him as, all the while, Draco sat against the wall and drew his eyes across the shaded part of the Cellar. He said nothing so for him, she spoke in haunted tones, voice creeping up and down with the inconsistent levels of depravity. They'd have to know. _Have _to, because if they didn't know... she didn't even want to think about it, if they didn't know.

"Dammit, Malfoy," Hermione cried, when she found that she couldn't quite deal with the silence anymore, "say something!"

But Draco was too busy thinking about butterflies and how he'd heard once that, if you snapped their wings off, the whole world could fall apart. In a gloomy and swollen tone, Draco said, "what do you want me to say?" and placed his head against the stone, eyes shut and puffy beneath the dual purple bruises that rest there.

"You could, at least, fill me in!" she breathed.

To himself, Draco wondered how much that would be possible. Filling her in would require reciting to her the facts and, quite clearly, those were a bit hazy to him. He mulled over the options of telling her, compared to the more pleasing idea of not telling her at all. Yet, when the moments ticked on and he still had not said anything, Hermione leaned forward and, in a far more steady tone of voice, asked semi-calmly, "W-What are the chances, you know? ... What are the chances that you think they'll f-figure this one out?"

Malfoy's head spun. How was he supposed to know? Potter and Weasley were, of course, _her_ friends. However, in reality, Draco knew what she'd meant and what she'd meant was the letter and if he'd given them some sort of clue while writing it. But he hadn't because he couldn't, and the Death Eaters had made certain that he couldn't, so he counted the chances in his head over and over again, each time coming up with zero. Zero chances. Nada. Nil. Nada. Zip. Zero, zero, zero.

"I didn't write the letter," croaked the blond and, all things considered, he wished the very moment he'd answered her that he hadn't, for the look on the girl's dirt face faltered and, confused, a strand of fuzzy brown hair fell across her spit encrusted cheek. Then Malfoy thought about lying before deciding that there was really no point in it. He wouldn't be protecting her from the inevitable.

She asked, "What do you mean?" in a barely there voice that was slow and shaky and sickening.

_"Imperio_," Draco mused, his eyes still stinging underneath his worn-out lids. "They used _Imperio_. The letter," he said, "it's still in my handwriting."

A long stretch of silence passed over them and, while Draco preoccupied himself with the stone floor beneath him, Hermione's short breaths were rather unmistakable. She remained, for a moment, staring at the sloppy form of Malfoy's body, appearing to struggle within the ways that she took him in, just the mere sight. She drained rather obviously along with all of the blood in her face. But the prolonged silence made her shake and she didn't move a muscle except her mouth. "Fuck," Hermione said to the floor and Draco found himself slightly flinching. He had never known the Gryffindor to be much of a swearer, but the atrocity that fumbled from her lips was, admittedly, a nice way to put things in perspective. She let her watery eyes shut and, like Draco, leaned her head against the wall that supported her. Then Draco heard her ragged breath hitch. "Fuck," Hermione said to the blackness of her closed eyelids.

Now, he thought, she was somewhere in the ballpark. Fuck. 'Fuck' was more like it. 'Fuck' was _quite_ like it, even, because, all dog shite aside, they were fucked. Draco, even he saw no way out of it; and, for a person who had grown up so skilled in the art of wriggling one's way out of things, his absent list of ideas was saying something. He tried wholeheartedly not to think of missing limbs, and buried torsos, and scalped heads. Eyes shut and unseeing, he tried to blame anyone- _anyone-_ but himself. And he couldn't help it when he wondered about timing and how, perhaps, if he hadn't slept farthest from the window, he'd have never had ended up in the Cellar without any of them whatsoever. So instead he blamed butterflies. Butterflies, Draco thought. Fuck butterflies.

"It's a stupid kind of thing to say, anyway, really," Draco spat quietly, though nevertheless, aloud.

"What's a stupid thing to say?" Hermione asked. She was hidden by the shadows and the whites of her eyes shone like two separate moons in the nighttime.

"That tearing a off a butterfly's wings can offset the balance of the entire future." He said back to her, feeling a bout of bitterness rise up inside him. This whole thing, he thought, it wasn't fair anyway. He hadn't asked for any of this, either; he'd only done what had been expected of him. How was he to know that everything he'd been taught growing up with had been an outright lie? How was he to deal with it? And this was what he got for doing the right thing, too; a seventeen year life of earth, and the rest of eternity, burning in Hell.

If his life was a joke, then it _definitely _wasn't _ha-ha_ funny. In fact, it wasn't any sort of 'funny' at all. Not really. But Hermione only lifted her head and, even though she was greasy, the shimmer of her sweaty face glowed like something divine. "The Butterfly Effect?" she asked him, her tone equally as quiet, but far more hoarse. The lengths of her exhaustion stretched on through the span of her delivery. "The Muggle philosophy?"

"A dense philosophy, really," Draco told her, "Whose existential outcome is effected by something so irrelevant like butterflies?"

Hermione blinked. Her eyes were wet and red and puffy, but she stared at him for a long time and, even in the darkness, he could spot the water trails that ran slanted down her cheeks. He hadn't heard her crying, but the state of her face made him sure of it. And, nevertheless, she waited a fraction of a moment before letting her mouth slide open to rasp tearfully, "Causality? Like Aristotle?"

"Shite philosopher, he was," Malfoy hissed. "Butterflies."

This time Hermione lifted her chin. She no longer cradled the jean-covered knobs of her knees, but instead stared back out at him uncertainly. She cleared her throat before staring again. "What do you know about Muggle philosophy?"

Malfoy watched her face intently and then, before he could stop it, a slight pink flush crept up the corners of his cheeks. "You're not the only person in the world who _reads, _you know," was his only satisfiable response.

"But you'd have to read a Muggle book for that," said the Gryffindor, and she squinted so much so, that another tear fell free from the turn of her eye and floated down the curvature of her jawline.

Then Draco's fingers unlatched themselves as well. He let his hands grip the ground and, subconsciously, dug his fingernails into the rock. "Very well spotted," he said with an aggravated jolt. What did she know about anything, anyways?

Nonetheless, Hermione sniffed and, though her fingers were shaking, she pulled the hair from her eyes and tucked them gently behind her ears one by one. With the curtains of her unkempt hair pulled away, Draco could see every pore, freckle, and blemish, but she was beautiful, and he hated himself for thinking it. Hermione's voice came back to him curiously. She sounded certainly as if she'd been crying, but the soggy manner in which she formed her words made him think she'd been outright weeping. "Where did you possibly get Muggle books?"

He thought a moment before responding. Then, despite himself, he let his defiance get the best of him. "Borgin and Burkes," he told her, since she so _insisted _upon knowing.

"Borgin and Burkes sell _Muggle_ artifacts?" Malfoy could have strangled her, but the crumbled look that passed over Hermione's features signified that she could sense it. Nevertheless, Draco begrudgingly found that he didn't quite like the way that she shrunk back away from him apologetically and, to make up for it, replied hastily, "If you must know, I'm fairly certain I'd rescued it before it was purchased and cursed."

But Hermione only stared and, when the time came that her face fell all over again, she only opened her mouth to ask, "You bought a Muggle book?"

And Malfoy couldn't really help it when his face turned a bright shade of intoxicating rouge. "Why in God's name are you interrogating me, Granger?" he scolded.

"I just don't understand," clarified the girl, and her glistening eyes found the ground as her fists found the fabric of her trousers all over again.

So, "There's nothing to understand," he told her, and he meant every word of it. "There was a lot going on during sixth term. I didn't want to think about magic for a while."

And this time, Hermione didn't say anything. Instead, she watched him for a few short seconds before sitting silently to herself, a strange sense of uncertainty about her that wafted around the room and gave Draco Malfoy an outright headache. He hated the quiet way that she shifted backwards, her bruised eyes heavy and whole with exhaustion and improper rest. And even the odd way that she mulled him over made him shiver, for she studied him under the downturned lids of her eyes and, when she finally looked away, retracted her attention to the floor right beneath the soles of her scuffed up shoes.

"Malfoy?" asked from the distance, right when he'd managed to curl back into himself, redirecting his knees to his chest and proceeding to wrap his aching arms around them.

He waited for a moment for the numbness in his torso to die down. Then he reopened the eyes he'd just shut and, in a voice that was only one part angry and one part sleepy, answered, "What."

"I think you're missing the point of Causality," she said quietly. "Aristotle said that every event, even the minor ones from the past, causes another. Not just butterflies."

"I'm talking about the insignificants, Granger, the _shite_ ones." He rested his chin on his knees and he gripped himself tighter for fear of falling into the blackness. "That something as minor as stepping on the cracks in the pavement can lead to a tsunami in Scotland."

Hermione stopped for a moment. When a ghostly perplexed expression washed over her complexion, she leaned her own chin back into the crooks of her limbs. "Perhaps not tsunamis," she murmured sadly, and she shut her eyes with a bout of something strange. For a slight second, Draco thought that she appeared to be keeping something from him.

"Granger?" Draco asked her, for it was his turn after all; and when he did so, something harsh and pointed scratched against the inside of his throat.

"Hm?" replied the girl who didn't lift her eyelids, but instead sounded as if she were just about on the verge of succumbing to tears all over again.

"They're probably going to make _me Crucio _you, you know." He looked right at her, watched her face to find that she didn't even flinch. "What's the Causation of that, except the fact that they're all right bastards?"

Hermione gave a slight shrug. Her face remained slate-like and unaffected. "Perhaps you shouldn't have punched Crabbe," she suggested and, finally, Draco Malfoy didn't know what left to say.

So he sat, for a moment, staring at the girl against the wall and the way in which she simply lie there. And she curled her head into her knees and buried her face within the depths of them, saying nothing more at all, while only the sounds of her ragged breath sounded out from underneath her. For then the night turned charcoal and dim, and everything became clouded with the thick fogs of the moonlit shade. And though he wasn't certain of the time exactly, he thought that possibly it had been midnight or later for he feared, more than anything, the time of the Witching Hour and hoped to the emptiness for the demons to stay away.

* * *

**Vonne: **I'm sorry for the shortness of this chapter. It was not intended to be this way, but I ended up taking out a lot of what I'd planned for this chapter to save it for the next. I'm just at 5,000 words, which is about 1,000 less that I'm used to doing for the chapters in "Cellar Door". However, I think that, as of right now, I am happy about the choice. I hope the lot of you are satisfied by it, at least. Anyway, you know what to do! ;)


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